


Half Lost, Half Found

by takadainmate



Category: Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driven underground, Batman fights to keep Nightwing alive.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>There is a fight. There's always a fight.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is a fight. There's always a fight. With adrenalin and muscles pulling and bruised knuckles and the smell of sweat and blood. 

It's dark. This is nothing unusual. Dick's spent what feels a whole lot like most of his life hiding out in shadows, facing off against everything from petty criminals to lunatics twice his size in places so dark he sometimes couldn't even see the end of his own nose. This is where he learned to fight. He's never feared it. So it confuses Dick now why he doesn't like it; there's an encroaching blackness at the edges of his vision that is too _empty_. The angle is all wrong. The sounds too muffled and indecipherable. Sound that could be someone laughing, or it could be the water boiling over onto the stove again, hissing and burning. Definitely burning. There's heat all down his side. 

Strange shapes move over him and around him and it bothers Dick that he can't remember what he was doing or where he is or why this all feels like a bad trip. Or what he guesses a bad trip would feel like if he'd actually been on one. Because, you know, Batman would be mad as hell if Dick ever took drugs. It would be like that one time with Brian Taylor and the attempted cigarette in the second floor bathrooms in ninth grade. Bruce had smelled the smoke on Dick as soon as he'd gotten through the door because he might not have super powers but sometimes it sure as hell seems like it. Then it was an hour of lectures and six days of angry, disappointed glares. That had been the worst. They talked even _less_ during that week of exile and Dick hadn't actually thought that possible.

There are hands on him. Grasping, pulling at his arms and digging blunt fingernails into his neck, choking him. Definitely not friendly. It's instinct to react; years upon years of training that cause Dick to lash out. His fist strikes something soft. Someone's face, his experience informs him. His legs kick out and something wrenches, something rips, but Dick has long since learned to ignore pain like this. It won't help keep him alive in a fight, pain only slowing him down. Distracting him. So Dick shoves it away, strikes out and his legs connect. Someone yells. A body falls heavily beside him. Dick can hear it but it's weird because he can't _see_. He's out of breath and he can't work out why.

Something heavy and solid hits Dick squarely across the chest then and Dick hears a distant cracking. Heat floods his lungs, squeezes his lungs, and Dick gasps. But he knows better than to give in to the agony that screams _broken bone_. He knows that letting himself succumb to the light-headedness and the struggle to get enough air will only get him dead. Instead, Dick focuses on sound. The only useful sense left that isn't messed up. 

He hears the drag of metal against gravel. Heavy boots against flesh. Dick thinks he can hear a voice he recognises but the roaring of his blood through his ears and the pounding in his head drowns it out. 

Everything kind of slides away and Dick thinks he should probably be more worried about that, but mostly he's just relieved. Nothing hurts in this grey, fuzzy half-consciousness. No one is trying to kill him. No one is yelling in his face. If he concentrates he can almost remember the taste of the tea Alfred made him that morning, bitter and strong. He slept in. Maybe he's still there, back in his old bed at the Manor, and this is all a really crappy dream. Maybe, soon, Alfred will wake him up and there will be comfortable warm sheets under his back instead of cold, hard concrete. He'll see Alfred's smiling face instead of the sneers of thugs. There will be breakfast in bed and a fire in the grate like there used to be when he was a kid and cold and kind of lonely.

Somewhere in his head he can even hear Bruce. It's no surprise he sounds stern. Even that has a comforting familiarity to it. What Dick doesn't get is the urgency in Bruce's voice. The- panic? It's not like Bruce to panic. 

Hands squeeze almost painfully around his arms and he hears, "Wake up, Nightwing!"

Dick wants to ask for just a few more minutes. Of all days he thinks he deserves it today. And why is Bruce calling him Nightwing anyway? 

It hits Dick then- or more accurately _someone_ hits Dick then; there was a trap. Obvious. Stupid. They walked straight into it anyway because that's what they've always done. Dick's not dreaming. He's not tripping. He's blinded and he's hurt and it kind of worries Dick that he can't feel it so much. 

There's a scuffle around him and Dick feels himself pushed and pulled and he really wishes he could see what the hell is going on. Someone wrenches on his arm and Dick finds his feet, finds himself upright and is almost certain he's about to puke when a hand slides around his back and he hears a low growl in his ear, "Hold on."

He holds on. 

They turn dizzyingly. Beside him Batman orders, "Down," and Dick obeys. He always obeys. Mostly. 

It hurts, his chest pulling, closing up as he crouches. Dick hears himself hissing, makes himself be silent. If there is one thing he trusts it's Batman to get him out of here in one piece. 

It should probably sting more that Dick needs saving like this; that after all these years and all the time he spends fighting alone he's back to being saved by Batman like he's twelve and wearing tiny shorts and pixie boots. What the hell were they thinking, anyway? It wasn't exactly the kind of outfit to instil fear into the hearts of Gotham's hardened criminal element. It all seemed like a good idea at the time though, and Dick's gotta be honest: he kind of liked the boots. Still kind of likes them-

Batman pulls him upright sharply, shakes Dick. "Pay attention." 

Right. Trying to stay alive. Dick had almost forgotten.

They're moving, half-stumbling because Dick can't seem to get his legs or his feet to cooperate. His arm is slung over Batman's shoulders and Dick can feel Batman's cape wrapped around his back. He hears gunfire, bullets striking concrete, and Batman growls under his breath. This close Dick can feel the tension, the strain in Batman's muscles, his carefully measured breaths. Dick tries to take more of his own weight, to stand up straight but something grinds painfully together in his chest and Dick chokes. Batman pulls him closer. It means, _Hold it together_ and _I won't let you go_ and _Don't be an idiot_ all at once. 

Their pace quickens, a sharp turn to the right, an immediate left and Dick can tell from the dull thudding of their boots that they're in a narrow corridor now. The shouts and jeers of bad guys echo after them. They were nothing special. Not particularly strong. Not bright. A lot of them, yes, but nothing Dick hadn't handled before so why does he feel like he's been run over by a truck? And why can't he _see_?

Batman stops suddenly, swings Dick around and leans him against a wall. He tries to slide down it wanting to sit down just for a minute to catch his breath and work out what's going on and maybe curl up and pass out but Batman catches him under the arms.

"Stay," he orders, making it very clear that that means stay _standing_. Dick frowns, wants to argue that he's not Batman's pet dog and he'll do what he damn well thinks best, but staying still is pretty much all Dick thinks he can manage so he holds his tongue and nods once. Even that much movement sends spikes of pain through his head and his neck and sometimes Dick really hates his life. 

In front of him, Dick can feel how close Batman's face is, imagines his eyes narrowing, assessing, and then he's gone. 

He made the grade, Dick guesses. 

Without sight, Dick concentrates on sound; the heavy unfurling of Batman's cape a familiar sound. The thud of fists and boots and bodies hitting the ground. More gunshots. Cries and calls, mixing together to become meaningless, intelligible. He's losing it, Dick realises. He's losing his grip on the wall and on consciousness and Dick'll be damned if he'll let Batman come back to find him passed out on the floor. His lungs burn and every breath is starting to hurt. There's a weird prickling behind his eyes, the skin on his face itches and Dick tries to remember if there was some kind of gas or a liquid thrown at him that has left him blinded. He can't remember anything specific, his whole head is a jumble of messed up images and snippets of a case he wasn't even supposed to be working on. 

It's been months since Dick- since Nightwing- last worked with Batman. For Batman. Whichever. Months since they'd spoken more than a few awkward words over the telephone because Alfred had absolutely insisted and supervised to make sure they actually said something. And that what they said didn't devolve into another argument. It never used to be like this. It never used to be so _hard_. 

A shuffing sound to his left catches Dick's attention and at the last minute he realises it's a man creeping up on him. Dick manages to drop just as the guy swings whatever weapon he's carrying into the space where his head used to be. 

_Stupid_ , Dick chastises himself. Not paying attention. Not listening. He _knows_ better. 

Somewhere above him his opponent swears, the momentum of his swing unbalancing him; Dick can hear his feet stumbling. It's all the opportunity Dick needs. He shoves upwards with his elbow into the man's chin, ignoring how the move sends new and agonising heat spreading across his chest. Should have stayed low. Making too many mistakes. But this way, at least, the thug has no chance to fight back and the familiar cracking sound as elbow meets jaw tells Dick the man won't be calling out for help any time soon. He does manage to make a muffled kind of scream and Dick takes a guess at where his head is, ramming it into the wall with just enough force to knock the guy out. He falls silent instantly, body slumping heavily to the floor beside Dick. The thug should be grateful. Dick knows from experience how much a broken jaw hurts. 

Dick really wishes Batman would hurry up and come back. 

As much as he'd love to, Dick doesn't sit down. Instead he leans himself against the cold, uneven wall of the corridor. Concrete, Dick guesses. He knows there are more bad guys out there. There are always more bad guys out there.

This time he hears them when they come. 

Three- no, four- from the footfalls and the hissed whispering. If they're trying for stealth they've got a whole lot to learn. Dick inches along the wall away from the noise, stepping carefully over the unconscious thug's body. It would be embarrassing as hell if Batman found him sprawled on the floor because he'd tripped over something that wasn't even moving. Mortifying. But Dick needs the room to manoeuvre when he can't see what's coming or where he's putting his feet. He feels exposed in the corridor but he guesses if there was anywhere better to hide Batman would have stashed him there. Dick has enough faith in Batman to believe he wouldn't turn this into some kind of test; some way of showing Dick exactly how much he'd screwed up and how he needed to _do better_ because somehow getting blinded and beaten were just not acceptable. 

Dick would love to remember exactly where he messed this up, maybe then he wouldn't be so pissed that no matter how many times he blinks his eyes all he gets to see is a fuzzy kind of blackness, tinged with reds and yellows around the corners like the imprint of an afterimage. He can feel wetness in his eyes, uncomfortable under his mask. He hopes it's his eyes watering and not bleeding. They sting in a way that makes Dick want to rub at them but doesn't dare.

The voices are closer now but it's difficult to pick up on their words. He hears Batman's name. Curses. The clicking sound of a gun being loaded.

Out in the open like this it would be way too easy to get shot at, and for all his skills moving faster than a speeding bullet isn't one of them. Dick tries not to feel guilty that he wishes Superman were there with them. 

He wants to puke or pass out or at least not be standing and as far as he can tell none of that is going to be happening any time soon, but it doesn't make it suck any less. Dick wants to be at home where people aren't trying to kill him. 

It's starting to worry Dick too how his mind keeps wandering because then suddenly he hears, "Shit!" and it's way too close. This guy could have a gun. He could be green and untrained. Or he could a ruthless veteran of Gotham's uniquely insane criminal underclass. If he could see, Dick'd be able to tell. No question. But right now all he can do is assume the worst. And there's only one thing Dick can think to do in the split second he has to make a decision.

Putting all the speed and power he's got left into his dive Dick barrels towards the voice, satisfied he hits something that feels a lot like a human chest but not so pleased because it freaking _hurts_. His back, his shoulders, his head, his _hair_. Dick pushes it all away, concentrates on using his opponent as a softer surface to land on than the concrete ground, trying to minimize doing any _more_ damage to himself. It half works. 

Beneath him Dick hears his opponent gasp as the air is forced from his lungs. It's an awkward angle but Dick manages to swing his fist at where he approximates the guy's cheek to be, feels it connect and the body under him relaxes. Another down, but Dick knows there are three more where he came from. At least. And Dick is sprawled out over some unknown unconscious guy and he's having a hard time catching his breath, so does not relish the thought of getting up, and this is not even slightly the best defensive position to be in. 

It's no surprise that Dick doesn't recover fast enough. Before he knows it he can hear heavy footsteps turning a corner, coming to a stop, and then a voice hissing, "Little bastard." 

Must be none too pleased with Dick's handiwork. 

Dick is mostly pissed at being called _little_. Maybe that would have made sense when he was Robin and twelve and kind of short for his age, but he's none of those things any more. Even if sometimes Dick thinks he can never stop being Robin, not completely. Batman will always be his partner, the one he looks up to and obeys and will ultimately trust to be there. However naïve and stubborn the others might think he is.

Dick is brutally reminded that he should be _concentrating here_ by a kick to his side. Instinctively, he curls away, gritting his teeth against the pain. A deep, angry voice orders him to _get the fuck up_. To _fight like a man, you fucking freak_. 

Nice.

Dick would like nothing more than to comply, but this new bad guy doesn't give him a chance. In the next moment Dick can feel hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, turning him around. The brute pushes hard and Dick can't find his balance, can't get his feet in the right place. He topples back and thinks that probably hurt but can't feel it because his attacker is beating him around the face, one fist after another, spitting abuse that Dick has heard a thousand times before. He's just getting into a rhythm when Dick hears a sharp, dull crack; his nose breaking. No more modelling for him. Unless they like the beaten to a pulp look, which, okay sometimes they do. Which is weird. 

The thug laughs and Dick hears knuckles cracking. He's always hated that sound. 

The momentary pause is enough. 

Dick aims low, kicks out with all the strength he has left. His boot connects. The howling that follows is a good indication he hit his mark. 

"You fuck," the guy curses. "You little fuck." He's wailing, pacing somewhere close by and Dick knows he needs to move. He needs to get the hell out of there because there are more coming and Dick doesn't know how much longer he can stay conscious and _where is Batman_?

No matter how much Dick tells himself to get up though he just _can't_. He can't breathe and his face hurts and he can feel wetness trailing from his nose. 

He runs out of time.

Over the pounding in his head Dick hears the distinct sound of a gun being pulled, safety off. The barrel is pressed painfully against his knee and the thug hisses gleefully, "I'll show you, you fucker. I'll teach you to fuck with me."

If Dick was a little more lucid, a little less messed up it would be an easy thing to avoid the bullet. He's angry and slow and no match for Nightwing. But Dick can barely keep a grip on consciousness and in the split second he has to realise what's about to happen and to do something about it all he can manage is to minimize the damage. He twists to the right, pulling his legs up and away from the barrel of the gun. Even expecting it, the pain of the bullet ripping through the muscles of his calf is bad enough that Dick can't stop himself crying out. His voice echoes in his ears. His leg is on fire. No matter how many times he gets shot he'll never get used to it. It's not like getting beat up or kicked or thrown through a wall. It's burning, clawing agony and all Dick can do is lie there and gasp for air. He's hot and cold all at once. It's too loud and he can't hear anything. He's having a really shitty day. 

There are things he should be doing, like fighting back or getting away from this psycho but Dick can't seem to control a single one of his muscles. He can't have more than seconds before the guy fires again. He's a sitting duck. Sprawled duck. Whatever. An easy target. Helpless. And through the burning in his leg and the vice around his ribs Dick's clearest thought is how damned angry Batman is going to be. Batman taught him better than this. Batman would never get himself in such a mess. He wouldn't let himself die here, and neither will Dick. 

It takes more than he has left to drag his thoughts into some kind of order; to concentrate on the immediate danger and not on the pain or how hopeless his situation is. Batman would say there is no hopeless situation, just giving up. 

Dick concentrates. Still no sight, but he can hear someone- the guy who's trying to kill him he guesses- muttering, "Boss said not to kill you but I might just have to if you don't fucking keep still."

It's reckless, but Dick can't help taunting, "Like you could, creep."

"Real smartass, huh?" the guy scoffs. "You gonna take me out by hurting my feelings?"

In the next moment arms are bracketing Dick's head. He can smell bad breath where the thug is leaning in close, warm breath ghosting over his cheek. Dick tries to turn away but is stopped by a rough hand holding his chin cruelly hard. 

"Hate to break it to you, pretty boy," he sneers, "but you're not getting out of this one."

It's about time he got a break, Dick thinks; this guy isn't too bright. Underestimates his opponent. Overestimates himself. A common mistake and one that right now Dick is thankful for. 

Dick grins and jerks his head forward, head butting the guy with enough force that he nearly knocks himself out. Relying on reflex, Dick strikes out with his fists, punching the bastard in the neck. He gets a satisfying choking sound in response. The satisfaction is short lived because the next thing he knows is white, sheer agony as the guy grinds his fingers into the bullet wound in Dick's leg. 

"Fucking _shit_ ," the thug spits.

All Dick can see is grey and red. He knows he's slipping. 

Then, as suddenly as it came the pain is gone. Dick hears the familiar sound of thick fabric, feels the corner of it slide over his shoulder. 

Batman.

Disconnected sounds follow; howls for help, the thud and crack of fists against flesh, breaking bone, the scuff of boots against the ground. Another gunshot and Dick cringes, expecting to feel the burn of a bullet through his body all over again but the pain never comes. 

After a long while- or maybe a short time; Dick can't tell and doesn't paticularly care- there is a brief moment of quiet before hands lay gently against his shoulders, then his neck, then his face, and Batman is calling for Nightwing. Again. 

"Hey," Batman says, but the voice is more Bruce than Batman and the weirdness of that has Dick opening his eyes. Trying to open his eyes. Kind of opening his eyes. It's hard to tell when open or closed the view looks the same. "I'll get you out of here," Batman- Bruce- says. "But you have to help me out. You're too big for me to carry any more."

Despite feeling like he's been run over by a truck Dick somehow manages to laugh at that.

"I think I'd die of the shame, anyway."

"Don't be so dramatic." Bruce's hands disappear and Dick hears the sound of material being ripped. He can guess what's coming next.

"Says the man who dresses as a giant bat," Dick retorts. He reaches out and Bruce catches his wrist, guides his hand to Bruce's arm.

"Hang on," is all Bruce says. 

Dick does. 

It doesn't lessen the pain any as Bruce binds the gunshot wound tightly- so tightly Dick thinks Bruce is trying to cut his damn leg off- but it's good to have someone there who isn't trying to kill him. Who Dick knows will keep anyone else trying to take a shot at them away. He's not convinced he could take much more damage. 

Gritting his teeth, Dick feels kind of childish for wanting- for _needing_ \- to hold on to Bruce like this. It's the blood loss, he tells himself. And the head injury. And whatever the hell has happened to his eyes. It's messed him up. Bruce doesn't complain in any case, even pats Dick on the arm when it's over. Mostly by this point Dick just hopes he doesn't puke over him. 

"We can't stay here." Back to Batman's voice again, stern and commanding. "Can you stand?"

 _Not a chance_ , Dick thinks. 

"Sure," he says.

It might be the fact that Dick doesn't actually manage to move, but Batman is apparently not convinced because he wraps arms around Dick's back and very carefully, very slowly pulls him up. 

Hanging on to Batman's shoulders, about halfway to standing, Dick has to gasp out, "Stop. Batman, stop!"

His head is splitting in two and his stomach is seriously unhappy and even without being able to see Dick is certain the ground under him is tipping sideways. Or turning upside down. Or just generally doing things it isn't supposed to.

"Nightwing," Batman says sternly. "There's no time-"

"There's time if you don't wanna be decorated with last night's dinner," Dick hisses through clenched teeth. 

Batman stills instantly.

"Yeah, I know," Dick manages to grin. "Puke is a bitch to get out of Kevlar."

It's so strange to be this close to Bruce again. It has to be years since they were anywhere near this much in each other's space, but Dick still remembers the curve of Bruce's back, the reassurance of his shoulders like it was yesterday. It was rare even when he was a kid, but now this kind of proximity is pretty much unheard of. Dick is maybe kind of embarrassed that he maybe likes the way Bruce holds on to him like he _means_ something . Like he cares. Dick takes strength from it. Reminds himself that this is no time for getting worked up over what they aren't ever going to be like. 

He takes a deep breath- or at least as deep a breath as he can without it grinding something in his chest the wrong way- getting control over himself, swallowing it all down and nods, telling Batman, "Okay. I'm good."

"No," Batman says. "You're not."

"Okay, no I'm not," Dick agrees. "But I would be if we went home. Maybe drank ten cups of Alfred's coffee. Vegged out in front of the TV."

"You have never," Batman points out, balancing Dick on his one good leg and getting a good grip on him around the waist, "sat still long enough to be considered _vegging out_."

"I could start now." Dick would really like to start _now_. "Oh man. I'm going to have to hop."

Batman pulls Dick more firmly against his side. "Lean your weight on me."

"I _am_." Dick's got something like a death grip on Batman's neck, the muscles of his arm shaking from the strain of holding himself up.

Predictably Batman ignores him, takes a tentative step. It's awkward as hell and every movement pulls viciously at the hole in his leg and the broken mess of his chest but Dick has had worse, he reminds himself, and he does his best to help keep them moving forward. Wherever they're going. Out, hopefully.

They don't speak. Dick doesn't think he could even if he had something to say. He needs all his concentration to keep upright, holding onto Batman desperately because he's pretty sure if he loses his grip he'll lose consciousness too. And that would be bad. 

It's agonisingly slow, frustrating, but if Batman is annoyed he doesn't show it. Or at least, he's not giving off any of those pissed bat-vibes Dick's kind of gotten used to feeling emanating from Bruce. Batman. Whichever. 

It occurs to Dick then that Batman hasn't made any kind of comment about his blindness. There's no way he could have missed Dick's groping around, or the fact that he has his eyes closed half the time because it hurts less and they're useless anyway. The only explanation Dick can think of is that Batman knows what happened. In all likelihood was there when whatever happened happened. Dick would love to know too, and might have asked if he didn't hear raised voices somewhere behind them, to their left, closing in. 

"How many?" Batman asks. It's impossible to know if Batman is testing him or if he's too preoccupied with Dick's weight to count for himself. 

"Nine." Footsteps, gait, speech; classifiable, recognisable, countable. Another of Batman's lessons honed from long experience of working in dark places. To rely on sight alone would be way too much of a disadvantage in this line of work. There's an all-too familiar cackling ahead of them. The laugh reverberates creepily around him. "Ten," he corrects himself. 

Beside him, Dick can tell Batman is looking around them. "We can't get out this way." _With you in this state_ , he doesn't say but Dick hears it anyway. 

It's true the thought of doing any kind of acrobatics right now makes him feel kind of queasy, but Dick isn't _dead_. Yet. Before he has time to argue, to tell Batman he can manage whatever needs to be done, Batman decides, "We head down."

In Batman language down pretty much always means _sewers_. Awesome. Like his day couldn't get any worse. 

With their direction decided Batman quickens the pace. 

The bad guys are closing in on them, surrounding them. Dick is starting to get lightheaded. He can feel blood running down his leg, filling his boot. Losing too much blood, too quickly. 

Suddenly they come to a stop and Dick almost over-balances from the momentum. His face would certainly have met the floor if Batman hadn't gotten his hands under his arms, holding Dick up. 

The next thing Dick knows he's being propped up against another cold, damp wall. It worries him that he doesn't remember getting there. It worries him even more that his face feels like it's pressed against the sharp armour at Batman's neck. 

"Nightwing," Batman is calling sternly. "Stay awake." 

Easy for him to say.

"I need to open the grate. You need to stay on your feet."

Dick nods. "Yeah. Okay." Not really okay, but it's not like he has a choice. 

He feels the cool leather of Batman's glove against his cheek. 

"You'll do fine."

If Dick had known all it took to get a few words of encouragement out of Batman was a couple broken ribs, a gunshot wound to the leg and a beating around the face he would have done it years ago. 

Or not.

Batman pulls Dick upright, away from the relative support of his body. Dick shivers, suddenly cold without Batman being near. There's nothing to hold on to except the wall and Dick has to balance precariously on one leg. He manages. Kind of. 

Batman doesn't let go which Dick takes to mean he doesn't exactly look stable. It's easy to imagine the dubious expression Batman is wearing.

"Stop looking at me like that," Dick says, trying to shrug Batman's hold off of him. It's a pathetically feeble attempt and only serves to make Batman hold onto him more firmly.

"You can't see how I'm looking at you," Batman points out.

"I don't need to. Go." There's only so long Dick can keep this up. His working leg is already shaking under him from the strain. 

With a brief squeeze of his arms Batman goes.

Useless, Dick thinks. He's useless like this. If anyone attacks them now there's nothing Dick would be able to do about it. He should be watching Batman's back, not hiding in a corner just because he's beaten to hell. Dick can hear a soft clanging of metal against metal, a scraping of iron against concrete. Batman prying open the grate he'd mentioned, Dick guesses. He's trying to get them out of here and Batman is unprotected and it's Dick's fault. 

He loses time again, feels his back sliding down the wall and has to dig his fingernails into the damp concrete until it hurts, until he can feel skin being scraped from his fingers, to catch himself. Jeering voices, getting too close, call, "Come out, little Bat Boy," and, "We won't hurt you," and Dick wonders if people will _ever_ stop calling him _boy_.

Then Batman is there in front of him; a familiar presence, the same smell of leather and sweat Dick has known for so much of his life. Dick has always thought the suit had to be too hot. Too stifling. Too enclosed to allow the kind of movement Dick needs.

"Stay with me, Nightwing," Dick hears. The terse command snaps him to attention and sometimes Dick hates how he does that; how with one order Dick automatically obeys, long habit so ingrained Dick isn't certain he'll ever be able to shake it. He's not sure he even wants to. 

A hand slips around his back, draws his arm across broad shoulders, begins half dragging, half carrying him because Dick can't get either of his legs to do anything but seize up painfully. Batman murmurs, "Just a little more. I need you awake, Nightwing. I'll lower you down and you _don't fall when you hit the ground_. Do you understand?"

"Yeah." Dick is panting like he's run a marathon or something and he wants to add, _Like I ever fall_ , but that's not entirely true and right now is more than a lot likely. 

" _Nightwing_ ," Batman says sharply. It sounds a lot like Bruce's _You've done something wrong and I'm going to tell you exactly where you screwed up_ voice. "Do you understand me?"

" _Yes_ ," Dick hisses back. "I get it." 

Stand. Don't fall. Don't mess up.

In their haste Batman isn't exactly gentle as he manoeuvres Dick into place, hands him over the edge of the drain access. When the smell hits him it's almost overwhelming and Dick's stomach turns. The amount of time he's spent wading his way through sewers and old abandoned tunnels littered with dead rats and rotting garbage you'd think he'd be used to the stench by now. Even Bludhaven on a Friday night somehow manages to smell more fragrant. 

The hold Batman has on Dick's wrists is enough to hurt.

"You ready?" he asks. They both know this is going to hurt like hell. They both know Dick has to keep silent. They both know Dick's going down that hole ready or not, but Dick guesses it's kind of nice he asked anyway.

"Good to go," Dick lies, trying for a smile. The way Batman snorts leads Dick to believe that it probably wasn't all that convincing. 

His bad leg hanging over the edge, Dick wonders how far down this goes. There's a dripping sound that Dick seriously hopes is water and not his own blood. It can't be far, he tells himself. Neither of his legs will take much of a fall. But then, this is Batman, who expects everything from Dick even if he never says it. 

There's no easy way to do this, so Dick braces himself, pushes away from the side. For all that Dick expected the pain he didn't expect _this_. His chest closes up, to feel like his insides are digging into his lungs; suffocating. The world goes white, which is kind of a nice change after so long seeing nothing but darkness. 

The next thing Dick knows he's dangling in mid-air and someone is holding onto his hands. His hands that are slick with sweat. Slipping, Dick realises absently. 

Somewhere above him Dick hears Batman's voice _growling_ , "Nightwing. Dammit _Nightwing_. _Answer me_."

Dick tries to form a response but finds he can't _breathe_ and instead chokes. Coughs. Tries tipping his head back to gasp for air. To see Batman. To see what the hell is going on but there's _nothing_. Then he remembers. Dick remembers where he is and almost wishes he hadn't.

Batman's voice is more strained than Dick remembers hearing for a long time. "Come on. You can do this."

"Let go," Dick manages to choke out. He doesn't know how long he was out; how long he's been hanging there, but it's been too long. There's no way their pursuers aren't almost right on top of Batman's position by now and no way is Dick going to be the reason for Batman- for _Bruce_ \- to be unprotected, to be in this indefensible position any longer than he has to be. 

"No," Batman states flatly. 

" _Do it_." Dick can't do authoritative orders quite like Batman can, but he hopes he puts enough strength and determination into his voice to convince him. As soon as Dick feels Batman shift he knows he's won. If there's one thing Dick knows it's how to fall. 

"Don't pass out," is all Batman says before he lets go.

There's no time to think before his bad leg is hitting the ground. Or at least what must be the ground, but all Dick can feel is fire along every nerve in his body. He can't tell which way is up and which way is down or which part of pain-wracked flesh is his arm and what is his leg. It's all the same. But Dick knows he can't make a sound. He knows with the same surety that Batman will follow. That Batman is counting on him to remain silent. So he does, swallowing down the agony, biting it all back until the pain has faded enough that Dick can tell his head from his toes again. At some point he must have bitten through his lip or his tongue because he can taste fresh blood in his mouth, and then he realises Batman is standing next to him, reassuring in a low voice, "You made it. You're okay. You did it."

Somehow Dick is kneeling on one knee, his bad leg bent at an awkward angle behind him. Batman has an arm wrapped around his shoulders, another in his hair. Dick's head is leaning against some part of Batman's armour that is maybe his stomach or side. Dick has neither the strength nor the interest to work it out for certain. 

Another minute, maybe two, of rest, learning to breathe again. Taking comfort from Batman's hold on him. Cold water swirls around his knee, fills his boots. A sewer. Right. 

Then Batman straightens.

"We need to move."

To be fair, even that short reprieve is more than Dick would normally expect. 

Dick nods, does his very best to help Batman pull him to standing. He's all for getting as far out of the cold water as possible. He's all for surviving the night even more.

The smell hits him again, makes him gag. Or maybe that's the weird dizziness going on with his head. When he gets out of here Dick is going to take the longest, hottest bath he can get Alfred to coax out of the Manor's ancient plumbing. He's going to ignore any and all complaints about him hogging the bathroom. It's not like there aren't twelve others to choose from.

Batman shakes him lightly. "Stay focused."

He's drifting again. Losing track of time and of his thoughts. They're moving forward. Or maybe that should be crawling forward, inch by slow, agonising inch. The pain is kind of like background noise now, always there pressing in on his senses, sometimes sharp and sometimes just everywhere. His leg drags along the uneven ground and every step jars at the gunshot wound. Dick can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing that he's starting to feel it less and less.

"I closed the grate," Batman says out of nowhere. Dick guesses he probably doesn't mean closed so much as welded shut and armed with explosives or something. Batman's just thorough like that.

It's weird for him to offer conversation though. Dick usually does all the talking. "It should buy us some time, but we need to move faster." Maybe not so much conversation as Batman's unique method of encouragement. That at least is familiar territory. 

Dick tries to nod in response but thinks it comes off more of an unfortunate lolling onto Batman's shoulder than anything. His throat is too dry, his chest heaving with the exertion of keeping moving to waste breath on trying to speak. 

He wants to ask, _You know where you're going, right?_ , and maybe, _Does Alfred still have that ultra-strength washing detergent, because these stains are going to be a bitch to wash out of my suit and what the hell are we even_ stepping in _here?_. He wants to be on the rooftops, not the gutter. He wants to be flying beside Batman, not leaning on him. The best he can do is to try to take more of his own weight, trying to manoeuvre his one working leg more quickly, trying to stay out of Batman's way. 

They turn left, turn again, then right. Whatever path or tunnel they're following curves around and Dick feels like they're going around in circles. He imagines they're in some kind of maze. Trapped rats. Which is kind of appropriate considering the rats he _knows_ are down here with them. Occasionally he can hear their scuttling and their squeaking. 

This place is full of echoes; running water, a clicking that Dick can't work out, a dull roar that could be the street overhead or maybe a subway train below them. Voices join the sounds. Whatever Batman did to hold off the bad guys it didn't stop them for long. From the way Batman picks up the pace- or at least tries to- he's concerned they'll catch up with them too. But this is Batman's domain. This is a world of shadows and hidden corners, enclosed and controllable. They have a better chance down here than they did out in the warehouse or factory or wherever they were. Dick's memory is still kind of hazy on the details, but odds are on warehouses or abandoned factories as the hang out of choice for Gotham's criminal element. 

"We're headed for Seventh Street," Batman tells him, unprompted. Dick guesses it's good to know that he has a plan. And knows where he is. But then, Batman could navigate Gotham's extensive sewer network with his eyes closed. Which, Dick thinks, is exactly what he'd be doing if he didn't have Batman with him. It reminds Dick of long nights as Robin spent finding his way through these old, crumbling drains with his legs wet and exposed and _freezing_. At least he gets to wear pants now, he guesses. Not that his legs feel any warmer right now than on any one of those long, winter nights. There's an icy numbness in his limbs that feels all wrong. 

Batman goes on, "It's not much further. Just a little further."

It's not like Batman to lie, but Dick can hear the falsity of his words. He was taught by the best after all. He wonders how bad he must look for Batman to think he needs that kind of reassurance. 

All of a sudden a deep booming fills Dick's ears, the ground shakes under them and for an instant Dick thinks it's another earthquake and wouldn't that just be his luck. The unsteadiness under their feet, a rush of air hitting from behind, knocks them to the ground. Dick splutters foul-tasting water from his mouth, realises he's face down in the stuff and has to arch his neck to the side to keep out of it. His arms are trapped beneath him and oh God his _leg_. He tries to twist, tries to get away from the pain reverberating through him and then someone- Batman- is pulling at him, turning him over and putting his back against a wall and tucking his head against his chest. The weight of heavy fabric- Batman's cape- settles around him. Another deafening boom. The world rocks again. Dick hears the sound of splitting, metal scraping against metal, brick cracking apart, splashing loudly into water. 

An explosion, he realises. It's an explosion. Which is only marginally less bad than an earthquake. Batman holds on to Dick just a little tighter.

"We were too late," he hears Batman hiss under his breath. If Dick wasn't so close he would never have heard the comment, doubts Batman meant for him to, but it still makes Dick wonder if whatever they were too late for was his fault. For getting himself blinded and shot. For being a burden. That he'd held Batman back from stopping whatever this is. That maybe innocent people have been hurt and that would be on his head. 

There's no time to try and work it out, to try and remember anything, because then there's another explosion and this time it's definitely closer; Dick can feel the heat of it even half-hidden under Batman's cape, half-covered by Batman's body. Choking dust fills the air and Dick feels debris falling against his back.

"Damnit," Batman curses. And that is so not a good sign.

A third explosion, and this time close enough that Dick hears the blast before the sewer around them starts to shake. No time for being gentle about it, Batman wrenches Dick to his feet, bundles him forward. The sides of the tunnel they've been taking shelter against are curved and the angle makes it impossible for Dick to get his feet under him. He falls, tipping sideways, arms reaching out, trying to find something to grab onto. Trying to break his fall. Batman half manages to catch him under the arms, Dick's legs trailing in cold water again. And just when he'd finally gotten _out_ of the water. 

Batman is trying to pull Dick up to standing again when a fourth blast hits them from behind. Dick hears Batman grunting in pain, burning air roaring past his ears, scouring the skin of his face. A weight falls on top of him and for one horrifying too-long second Dick thinks that Batman is down. That he's hurt; killed; _dead_. He doesn't care how much his leg feels like it's swollen up to twice its normal size, that his skin is just about ready to split open. No matter how bad a state he's in, Dick will drag Batman out of here himself if he needs to. Whatever it takes. Somehow. But then arms curl around Dick's head, Batman's body shifts, bringing them closer together, and the relief is enough, the exhaustion so great that Dick brings his arms up and grips tightly at Batman's sides. He doesn't think about how they aren't like this, how they don't cling to each other like this and never have done. 

Dick holds on.


	2. Chapter 2

When he was a kid, new to a world outside the circus and everything was strange and different, Dick never thought anything of spending long hours in what was essentially a cold, draughty, damp cave. He had, after all, grown up with people who preferred sleeping on hay with their animals than on a bed, or who never changed out of their costumes, even when they had to go into town. 

Sometimes Alfred would do that creepy smile thing and say to Bruce, “Perhaps you might consider carpeting? No? A little heating? The computers will overheat you say? Then perhaps a waterproof, heat-preserving suit for your over-worked and chilled employee?” 

Dick never really noticed the cold. He moved too much. Never stayed still for longer than the time it took to eat or to look at whatever Bruce was showing him on the screens or to catch a few minutes sleep in Batman’s chair when he wasn’t looking. It was only when Alfred or Superman or someone mentioned it that Dick would realise that, oh yeah, it was maybe a little on the cool side. But Bruce never minded and neither did Dick. The cave was more of a home than the warm luxury of the Manor above ever was. In the endless halls and cavernous rooms of the Mansion Dick always felt lost; a small, invisible thing hidden between antique chairs and imposing bookcases. In that house he was Dick Grayson, who had no parents and who always had a mountain of homework to do and who had nothing of his own.

In the cave below Dick’s presence _meant_ something. He was important. He was Batman’s partner, and Batman listened to him. He was safe. 

A whole lot had changed over the years. He and Bruce had more arguments than Dick could count. Half the time they weren’t talking, and the other half they only talked shop. But somehow, despite all this, every time Dick finds himself back in the cave he still gets the feeling that _this_ is where he belongs. That this is where he grew up. His home. 

Dick imagines he’s there, now, dozing in a corner. There’s a damp mustiness to the air that makes Dick think it must be winter, before Alfred has gotten to the work surfaces with bleach and cleaning spray for his bi-monthly blitz against what he calls _the pig-sty you two manage to make of a_ cave.

It’s colder than usual; his clothes are wet and Dick wonders if maybe they’ve just come back from a night patrolling and it was raining outside or something. He doesn’t remember rain. But then, he doesn’t remember patrolling either.

Somewhere close by Dick can hear the soft sounds of running water, the whirring of one of Batman’s gadgets, and Batman himself bustling around the room, his heavy cape shifting every time he moves. 

It’s hard to move, his whole body heavy and sore. Dick guesses he must have been in a fight. A hard one too from the aching in one of his legs, the low burn of pain in his chest. That would explain why Batman was letting him rest in the Batcave for once and not forcing him upstairs to bed _if he’s that tired_ , or into another hour of training _if he’s just being lazy_. 

There’s no Alfred though, which is weird. 

Now Dick thinks about it he remembers he doesn’t live here anymore. He’s not Batman’s partner anymore. Not for years.

He’s Nightwing. He has his own city to protect. His own life away from Batman. Or at least, that’s what he’d like to think, but Dick is self-aware enough to know that it isn’t quite that simple. Nor is it ever going to be. 

Once a Bat, always a Bat. 

The thing is; Dick wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re his family and he’d do anything for them. 

Maybe that’s why he’s here in the cave. Maybe he’s here to help with something. Or maybe he’s just here to bug Bruce, because God knows someone has to. Dick will never admit to it but bugging Bruce is something he _really_ enjoys doing. Maybe even when it all ends with them yelling at each other because at least then they’re _talking_. Kind of.

The fact that he doesn’t remember worries Dick. Could be some kind of drug messing with his memory. More likely a blow to the head from the way his brain feels like it wants to melt out of his ears. Concussion. Fun times. 

Dick knows it’s a mistake to try opening his eyes, but he does it anyway. 

And, yeah, instantly regrets it. 

The world lurches, too bright, and Dick has to snap his eyes shut. He heaves, his stomach cramping, and Dick turns on his side, trying to relieve the pain. He’s in worse shape than he’d realised, his ribs moving wrong, the aching leg now _burning_. There’s only bile to bring up but it leaves his throat sore and a sour taste in his mouth. Just that much leaves Dick so exhausted he can’t even hold his head up. There’s no comfortable cot under him, like the one he remembers from the cave. Instead, there is cold, damp stone and Dick shivers. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s never slept on the cave floor before, and Dick doesn’t believe Bruce would let him, especially considering the mess he’s in. 

Bruce. 

Dick feels hands gently cradling his head, lifting it up off of the stone. There’s no doubt who those hands belong to. 

Dick licks his lips. He’s so thirsty. “Why am I on the floor?” 

Bruce’s voice doesn’t echo the way it usually does in the cave. “I didn’t have a camp bed in my utility belt.”

It takes Dick way too long to work out what Bruce is saying. Even then he’s not sure he heard right. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Good effort,” Dick grins, but then frowns. “We’re not in the cave?” He doesn’t dare open his eyes again to check for himself. 

A long silence. Bruce shifts closer; Dick can feel knees pressing against his back, movement as Bruce changes position so that he can lay Dick’s head on what feels like Bruce’s lap. A heavy blanket is laid over him. Bruce leans over Dick, tucking in the edges. The blanket smells familiar. Doesn’t feel like any blanket Dick’s ever come across before where it lays over his hands. Then he realises: not a blanket. Batman’s cape.

“Nightwing,” Bruce says. Not Dick. Which is weird. “What do you remember?”

 _Nothing_ is what Dick wants to answer, but he knows Bruce will never be satisfied with that. There is no situation, he would say, in which you can know _nothing_.

His most recent memories, then. 

There was a mostly silent, awkward-as-hell dinner with Bruce at the Manor. Something Alfred had set up and Bruce looked confused about, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there.

There was an offer to patrol together which, okay, was pretty cool. They hadn’t patrolled together in years without some reason for them both to be there. Dick couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or kind of sad that as soon as they were out there, traversing Gotham’s skyline, they didn’t need to talk to know that whatever else had happened they still remembered how to work together seamlessly. This they knew; how to fight together. How to watch each other’s backs. 

None of that is what Bruce is looking for though. Dick tells him, “There was… a fight? We saw a fight. Or were we fighting?”

Dick certainly feels like he’s been fighting. With a brick wall.

Fingers gently touch his cheek and it stings. Dick tries to turn away but Bruce stops him. “Open your eyes for me,” he says. Orders.

“I’ll puke on you,” Dick warns. 

A pause. “Not on the cape.”

Dick snorts a laugh, and doesn’t care that it kind of hurts because, wow, two jokes in one night. Bruce is on a roll. 

Unless that’s not actually a joke.

“Okay, take it easy.” Bruce tilts Dick’s head to the side, orders again, “Open your eyes, Nightwing.”

Cautiously this time, slowly, Dick does as he’s told. He hadn’t noticed before, with the rest of him feeling like a giant ball of pain, but his eyes sting like someone has ground salt right up against his eyeballs. They’re gritty; the skin of his eyelids peeling and sore and Dick gets them about half way open before he wretches. He’s pretty sure he misses the cape. 

It’s better this time though because Bruce is there, a hand on his back, holding his head up and Dick isn’t quite as cold. 

When his stomach decides to stop emptying itself, when he can breathe again Dick realises that even with his eyes open, everything around him is still a blur of blacks and greys.

“Is it dark in here?” he asks. 

“It’s light enough to see by,” Bruce says. 

“Then how come I can’t-?” 

There was an explosion, Dick remembers. Gas in his face, choking him, making his eyes burn. Walls falling around his ears. No. That didn’t happen at the same time. They were taken by surprise. They were trying to stop something. Dick was trying to _survive_.

“Nightwing.” Bruce is gripping his shoulder almost too tightly. The instruction is clear: calm down. Focus. 

“I don’t-" Dick tries to explain. “I remember some things but none of it makes sense.”

“All right.” Bruce settles Dick’s head back on his lap. “You have a concussion.”

 _I could have told you that_ , Dick thinks, but he’s never been one for talking back to Bruce. 

“You’ll get your memory back.” Bruce is saying. “It isn’t important right now.” 

“Where are we?” Dick asks, because that seems like it might be a useful thing to know. 

“We’re in a section of the old sewer lines under Gotham East. A series of explosions trapped us down here.”

Dick grimaces. “That would explain the smell.” 

Bruce hums noncommittally. “The cave-in is too extensive to hope I can dig us out of here. The structure is too old and unstable to risk any more explosives.”

“Does anyone know we’re here?” Dick asks, and Bruce’s silence is answer enough. 

“They’ll find us anyway.” Dick is certain of it. 

Predictably, Bruce says, “I would prefer not to wait.” But there is none of the irritated impatience Dick has become used to hearing in Bruce’s- in Batman’s- voice. Instead, it sounds a lot like concern. Frustration, like he doesn’t think they have much time. The cramping ache in his leg and his chest and his head make Dick wonder if it’s maybe _him_ that doesn’t have the time. He ignores the thought.

Bruce- Batman- will get him out of here. One way or another. 

Under the back of his legs there is water seeping into his suit.

“Hey.” Dick’s pretty sure there’s more to this situation than Bruce is saying. “What’s with the river under my legs?”

“We’re in a sewer,” Bruce deadpans. 

“It’s _rising_.” 

A pause. So, yes, definitely worse than Bruce is saying. 

“The cave-in is acting as a dam,” Bruce finally admits. “It’s coming in faster than it’s going out.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?” The water is damned cold. Dick can already feel a prickling kind of numbness in his toes. 

“I had hoped to have come up with a way out of here before it became an issue.”

It isn’t like Bruce- even more for Batman- to spare him the gory details like this. 

Dick narrows his eyes. Or would do if the skin around his eyes didn’t hurt like hell. “Are you being nice because it’s my birthday or something?”

“It’s not your birthday,” Bruce says dismissively. 

Really, Dick should have seen that coming. “It is,” he argues because, well, it is. 

And there is the familiar awkward silence of Bruce realising he’s gotten something wrong. It’s usually a date or a meeting or an appropriate sentiment when you get called into school because your thirteen year old has just beaten the crap out of six boys two grades older than him. Oh yeah. That was a fun afternoon. Batman never gets anything wrong. Bruce Wayne is a whole other story. 

“I guess I shouldn’t expect a card, then,” Dick jokes. He hadn’t expected one. He hadn’t expected Bruce to remember. But he had kind of hoped. At least Bruce doesn’t try to make any excuses. If Dick hears some variation on _I was on a case_ one more time he’s going to strangle Bruce. 

“It’s cool,” Dick shrugs. Then wishes he hadn’t because the movement pulls something the wrong way in his chest and it _hurts_. It’s not like Bruce remembered last year either. Or the year before that. Dick’s gotten used to it. 

“Our mutual butlering friend was angry with me all week,” Bruce tells him. “I couldn’t work out why.”

Dick can believe it. Alfred can be the king of passive-aggressive when he wants to be. “I’ll get you a calendar for _your_ birthday.”

“You tried that,” Bruce reminds him. “When you were eleven.”

It surprises Dick that Bruce even remembers that. It was a desk diary, and Dick had been so proud that Bruce had given it pride of place on his desk at Wayne Enterprises. Except he hadn’t thought that one through, because Bruce sat at that desk maybe once a month. And then only for maybe an hour. 

“I’ll get one for your utility belt this time,” Dick decides. “With annoyingly loud reminder ring tones.” 

Even though he can’t see it, Dick can just imagine the face Bruce is pulling; horror and distaste and maybe a little betrayal. He hates ring tones. Everyone who even knows Bruce slightly knows how much he hates ring tones. It never stops being funny. 

It’s weird, Dick thinks, but this might be the most he and Bruce have talked about something other than Batman business in months. Maybe years. Which is kind of depressing. 

Dick is exhausted. He’s finding it harder and harder to keep himself awake and alert enough to follow the conversation. But he doesn’t want to stop. It might be a long time before he gets the chance to talk to Bruce like this again. Even if it is freezing and Dick can feel himself starting to shiver and everything hurts. A lot. 

“Is there… anything you need?” Bruce offers tentatively, like maybe he’s unsure if Dick will take offence. He knows Dick hates it when Bruce tries to buy him stuff. But they’ve had this argument so many times and Dick is so tired he decides to let it go. Dick has long since resigned himself to the realisation that giving is one of the few ways Bruce Wayne knows how to express himself. He gives money to charity. He gave Dick everything he ever asked for as a child (except a motorbike at age twelve and a set of ninja swords at thirteen and yes, he’s still bitter). He just couldn’t give Dick some of the other stuff he might have wanted, like maybe his time or someone to hang out with. That was just Bruce though, and long experience had taught Dick there was no changing him. In truth, he kind of didn’t want to anyway: he wouldn’t be _Bruce_ without the slightly cold, impenetrable veneer of detachment. And it _is_ a veneer. 

“I’d like a new leg, please,” Dick says, and actually gets an almost-laugh out of Bruce for it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce promises, squeezing Dick’s shoulder lightly.

There is water pooling underneath him now. Dick can feel it filling his boots, lapping against his sides. Every inch it rises threatens to take Dick’s breath away because it’s _so damn cold_. The contrast of his burning leg to the freezing water now surrounding it puts Dick on edge. Makes him want to try and twist away. But there’s no way that would end well. Even worse, who knows what’s in this water, and at this point maybe Dick is glad he can’t see. He really needs to stop thinking about that. 

“What happened to the leg anyway?” Dick asks. Which, on reflection, is not the best of ideas for a conversation starter because _still thinking about the leg_.

“You were shot,” Bruce says shortly. He changes the subject. “I need to move you higher out of this water.”

As great as it sounds to not be floating in sewerage the thought of having to put anything like weight on his leg makes Dick feel ill. 

Bruce must see the reticence in Dick’s face because he goes on, “I know it’ll hurt, but you’re getting too cold.” Dick understands; danger of hypothermia, shortening the time Bruce has to get them out of here and no way is Dick going to die in a _sewer_.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Um. I don’t know how much help I can give you.” His muscles have all seized up. He feels so _weak_. Even if it makes him feel like he’s a scared little kid again Dick just wants to go _home_.

“You’ll be fine,” Bruce replies, which could mean pretty much anything. Dick takes it as encouragement. 

He expects it to hurt, but Bruce has only gotten as far as hooking his arms around Dick’s chest and it’s almost too much. Long ago, Bruce taught him a whole bunch of methods for ignoring pain, for putting it aside like it was nothing more than a distraction, but at that moment Dick cannot think of a single one. He thinks maybe he actually cries out, and Bruce is saying something to him that he can’t work out, and he should probably try harder but he _can’t_. It’s impossible to even tell what’s happening because it all hurts too much. Everything is a mess of cold and sharp edges and hands pulling at him and things inside of him moving _wrong_. Maybe he throws up again. Maybe he tastes blood. Maybe his fucking leg falls off. And even when it all stops and Dick is leaning up against something warmer than the cold stone ground and not being pushed at and wrenched apart anymore it feels like a long time before he can breathe again. Before he can think of anything except _Oh God make it stop_.

It doesn’t. Not really. The pain is still there. It just dulls to a bearable level. Mostly bearable. 

Still dark. Still blind. Leg still useless, but not as cold or wet. 

The cape- Batman’s cape- is draped over his shoulders, wrapped around him now. Dick can feel the weight of it, smells the familiar fabric. His head is resting against what can only be Bruce’s chest. Arms hold him in place and Dick’s first clear thought is, _Tim would_ never _believe this_.

His leg- he’s going to pretend his leg doesn’t exist. 

“You’re awake.” Bruce’s voice is loud in his ears. Oh yeah. He’s very close.

“I was asleep?” It felt more like being dragged under a bus than sleeping. Sleep would have been nice. His throat is dry and Dick wishes they’d brought water with them. He’s not desperate enough to drink _this_ water. Dick doesn’t think he’d ever be that desperate. 

“Non-responsive,” Bruce amends. 

“You took off your cape.” Which means Bruce took off his cowl and that is almost unheard of in the field. He kind of wishes he could see Bruce's face to know it was real; to know this was really happening.

“No one can get in.”

And they couldn’t get out goes unsaid. Minimal danger of discovery. Dick is glad for it, the cape- and Bruce- making him feel a little less like he might freeze to death.

Silence follows. He guesses Bruce has exceeded his chattiness quota for the day. In the quiet Dick can make out the sound of water trickling in somewhere below him. He feels every slow, steady breath Bruce takes. Smells rotting and decay, old crumbling brick, copper, blood. His head is too heavy, his chest aches so badly Dick is certain he can feel it in his _teeth_. His leg burns even though he’s s cold. Despite the warmth of the cape and Bruce he’s still shivering and Dick needs distraction. He needs sound and he needs to speak and Dick doesn’t care if it hurts his throat or tires him out. It’s better than listening to the pounding and pounding and pounding in his head. 

“So, no thoughts on getting out of here?” he asks. Escape seems like a safe subject.

“We wouldn’t be expected back until dawn-”

“ _You_ wouldn’t be expected back until dawn,” Dick interrupts. “ _I_ had plans.”

From the way Bruce changes his grip on Dick, says, “Oh?” Dick knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Not like that.” It isn’t often Dick is in Gotham these days, and he’d planned on making the most of his visit. “I was gonna go out with Tim. Maybe invite Clark.” 

“When?” And that right there is Batman’s interrogation voice.

“Ten.” Late enough to catch a movie. Eat too much popcorn. Have time to _fly_ between Gotham’s familiar skyscrapers and towers afterwards. 

Above him, Bruce nods slowly. “We’re well past that.” 

They’ll know something is wrong. Tim has to know Dick wouldn’t just ditch him. Well, not without letting him know he was ditching him first. 

But they’ll have to find them, and they’re buried under tonnes of brick and dirt and steel. 

“Tracker?” Dick asks hopefully.

“No. No communications possible down here.” Bruce’s tone suggests he already tried that. Multiple times. 

“We could try… shouting?” Dick suggests. “Beat Morse code out on… the pipes?” 

“There are no pipes.” 

Trust Bruce to take him seriously.

Silence again. Dick guesses Bruce must be considering their options. It’s not like him to sit and wait for rescue. Inconceivable that he would have given up. While they’re breathing there’s a chance; that’s a lesson Dick learned a hundred times over. Their options might be limited but that’s pretty much standard operating procedure for them. 

Dick feels himself drifting. Without conversation he has nothing to focus on besides the pain, too much of it and everywhere and there’s a part of Dick that wishes he would just pass out and be done with it. But that feels too much like quitting. As useless as Dick feels he’d be even more of a burden as a dead weight. 

Dead weight. He’d always thought that was a truly unfortunate phrase. Like _dead wrong_. It ended up being way too accurate half the time. 

Okay. Too depressing. Think about something else. Like the water that’s starting to rise around him again, cold and uncomfortable where it gets into Dick’s clothes. He doesn’t know how big a space they’re in, or how fast the water is pouring into it, but the level is rising rapidly. Faster than before, Dick thinks.

“The… water-” Dick begins, finds himself too tired to finish the sentence. Bruce understands what he’s asking anyway.

“It’s coming in too fast,” Bruce confirms. “There’s no higher ground.”

Dick grimaces. “Don’t feel like swimming.”

A pause. Bruce shifts his legs, takes in a breath. Preparing himself to tell Dick something he won’t want to hear. He’s seen Bruce do it often enough.

“As a last resort, I can take out the wall behind us.”

Yeah. Dick had hoped they weren’t down to last resorts yet. He can do the math. More explosives in an unstable environment. It’s a massive risk. It could bring the whole roof down on them. It could drown them. It could burn them alive if it’s a small enough space. Or it could do nothing at all. 

It’s likely the authorities are above them, looking into what the hell happened, but they won’t be looking for Batman. And if the water level keeps rising the way it currently is there’s no way they’ll be found, let alone rescued, before they both drown. Or freeze. Or blow themselves to smithereens.

“Clark-” 

He’d told Dick he’d try to make it. No definites. Dick got that. You never knew when some maniac was going to try and take over the world. But Dick was certain too that Clark would come looking for them. 

“I’ve warned you before,” Bruce says sternly, “about relying on his powers.”

“Not relying,” Dick shakes his head slowly. “Staying positive.” Which is becoming more and more difficult the colder Dick gets. The more the pain feels like it has wormed its way into his bones and taken up permanent residence there. Still, Dick tries. “He might hear us. Y’know. If we were… actually talking much.”

“We may be buried too deep.” Bruce sounds thoughtful. “Perhaps a louder noise. Something to attract his attention.”

“You could sing,” Dick suggests. “Clark would think… you were in agony.” 

“You,” Bruce says, “have never heard me sing.”

“Have.” To his great misfortune, multiple times. “Shower. In the cave. It echoes.” 

The silence that follows is a strange, tense thing that despite everything makes Dick grin because Bruce is probably trying to work out if Dick is lying or not, and if so what he can do by way of soundproofing. 

When he first moved in with Bruce, Dick couldn’t understand the man at all. He was a mystery, hurrying away to late night meetings almost every night. He was contradictory; sometimes cold and aloof, other times sitting with Dick and talking and occasionally even _laughing_. Bruce never failed to surprise him. Dick would never have figured him a shower-singer but there he was, all of thirteen and recently back from patrol, sitting in Batman’s chair peeling sticky, gross seaweed off his legs and wishing for tights when he heard it. At first he thought it was the bats, but Dick could discern a sort-of tune in the echoes and realised it was Bruce humming some song Dick didn’t recognise. He guesses Bruce never figured out why Dick couldn’t’ stop laughing for _hours_ that night. And at breakfast the next morning. And for most of the rest of the week. He’s pretty sure Bruce suspected exposure to Joker-gas. 

There is a sharp pinch to his arm, Bruce is demanding his attention, hissing, _Dick_ ,” in his ear. Dick sits up straight in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep. Is kind of impressed he even _could_ sleep with how messed up and cold he is. But then, he has a lot of experience. Winters were always the worst; stake-outs in freezing rain and snow and even when he’d been a kid Batman would always do that pinching thing to wake him up if he dozed on duty. It annoyed Dick then and it annoys Dick now.

“I’m awake,” he insists. His tongue feels heavy, too large, in his mouth. 

“You weren’t.” Batman sounds pissed. And maybe he has a point because Dick can feel now that the water covers his thighs, is inching its way up past his waist. At some point Batman- Bruce- had tucked Dick’s hands against his chest. To keep them out of the rising water a little longer, he guesses. 

His eyes do feel heavy and sore and everything is kind of muffled like he’s still half-asleep. Dick tries to shake it off but can’t. Someone was singing, he remembers. Badly. Must have been Bruce, in a memory. Or a dream. He tries blinking the confusion away and is surprised when instead of the darkness he’s gotten used to he _sees_ something. Blurry splodges of greys- which is probably about all there is to see in a collapsed sewer anyway- but it’s better than nothing.

“Hey.” Dick reaches up to his face, tries to rub his eyes. Batman stops him with a hand around his wrist. “I can see. Kind of.”

He sees Bruce: his face is blurry but Dick could never not recognise him. Bruce leans down, looking Dick over carefully. 

“Hi!” Dick greets. He’s maybe a little over excited about this, but it’s pretty much the first thing that’s gone right for Dick all day. 

Bruce lets go of his wrist, but orders sternly, “Don’t touch your eyes.” 

Oh yeah. Gross sewage-water covered hands. And the skin of his face still feels scrubbed raw. 

It’s a novelty though, despite the crappy view, to _look_. 

Dick turns his head away from Bruce’s shoulder, ignores the ache in his neck. The room is shaded a slightly ominous green- glow stick, Dick thinks- and in the dim light he can just about make out the wall on the other side. It’s made up of bricks and twisted beams and mud, water pouring in through a hundred crevices all over its surface.

Maybe Dick didn’t want to see that. Nor the dark water creeping up around them. It’s deeper than Dick had realised. Or at least he thinks it’s deep. His sight still isn’t exactly clear. The space they’re trapped in is a whole lot smaller than Dick had imagined. 

“I’ve never thought about drowning.” Dick hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and regrets it immediately when he feels Bruce tense beside him, start to draw carefully away. 

“We’re not going to drown.” It’s not so much that Bruce sounds certain but that he has that irritated _stubborn_ tone going on that convinces Dick that no, he’ll find some extreme escape route likely to kill them before they get the chance.

“I’m going to set the charges,” Bruce says.

Oh right. Blowing the back wall. Exactly. 

Bruce extracts himself from the hold he had on Dick, helping Dick shift over so that he’s leaning against the wall. The movement pulls at everything, stealing Dick’s breath. Even numb from the cold water the wound in his leg burns. God. An open gunshot wound stewing in sewer-juice. So gross. 

Okay. Not thinking about that. 

In the dark water Dick thinks he can just about make out Bruce’s makeshift bandage wrapped around his leg. He can’t see any blood, but the water’s so grimy and his sight is so bad that doesn’t mean much. 

Batman crouches in front of Dick, his face close enough that Dick can see his stern expression. The green glow spilling across the walls of their prison makes his face look sickly and sinister. “Stay awake.” Then he is gone in a messy blur of black and shade, somewhere to Dick’s right.

He hears crumbling rocks, the splash of water as Bruce clambers down into the growing pool around them. Dick is sitting on a ledge, Dick realises, once a walkway beside the sewer proper. If there hadn’t been this higher ground Dick would have been in water over his head by now. He’d had to have _stood_. The water level has reached up to Dick’s chest now and he still might have to. 

His eyes close, too heavy, and Dick tries to wrap his arms around his chest. Trying to keep them out of the water. He pulls Batman’s cape more tightly around himself. He’s cold and tired and there’s nothing much interesting to see anyway. Somewhere close by Dick can hear Bruce moving around, scratching out holes in the wall. He thinks he should probably help, or offer encouragement. Or something. But his head hurts less with his eyes closed. He’ll just rest for a few minutes. It’s not the same as falling asleep. It’s preserving his strength.

Gradually, sound fades away. Pain becomes numbness. For once- just this once, Dick wants to give in. He wants to let himself sleep and just not have to think or feel anymore. But he is Dick Grayson, former Boy Wonder and current Nightwing. He doesn’t give in. And worse, Batman will _not_ be pleased if he does. So Dick tries to force his eyes open. Tries to shake himself or do _something_ but his arms are dead weights and he’s starting to feel warm and that is so not right. Dick fights. He does. He just doesn’t win.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold. Wet. _Shouting_. Sharp pain. 

Dick wakes up suddenly and the first thing he thinks is, _Batman is going to kill me_. The second is that his head is _under water and he’s drowning_. He chokes, tries to find purchase on something, on anything, tries to push himself up but there’s nothing. Too slow. His muscles sluggish. Unresponsive. 

Before he can panic there are hands pulling at his shoulders, yanking him out of the water and then finally, gratefully, he can breathe. Dick gasps and coughs until it hurts and oh _God_ he’s so freaking cold. 

The shouting is Bruce, Dick realises. No. Not shouting. He’s just very close, his mouth pretty much right up against Dick’s ear and he’s saying, “Wake up, Dick. Dammit, wake up.”

It feels like he’s been here before recently. Oh yeah. Because he has. 

“Sorry.” Dick tries to apologise, but it comes out as more of a slur than a word. Stupid mouth. 

Either Bruce doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say or he’s choosing to ignore him. Could go either way. Because then he orders, “Work with me.” 

Dick wants to ask _how_ when he doesn’t actually seem to have any control over his limbs. He’s shivering. His teeth are chattering and it’s starting to hurt his teeth. His teeth. They’re the least of his worries. 

Batman is pulling at him, trying to turn him around. The water level is almost up to Dick’s neck now so he moves easily. Not fighting him, letting himself be pushed and pulled is about all the help Dick can give. 

“I told you to stay awake.” Dick recognizes Batman’s tone; irritated. Impatient. _Angry_. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

Dick complies, finds himself worn out by just that much effort and has to take several deep (painful, painful) breaths before he can reply. Somehow he manages to force his eyes open to prove he _isn’t_ asleep. They feel gummed up and sore and it’s hard to make out anything more than the blur of shapes. But there is Bruce, peering at him sharply, and Dick concentrates on that.

“Wasn’t… asleep,” Dick scowls. He’s having a shitty day and it wouldn’t kill Bruce to cut his some slack. Just this once. 

But this is Batman, and any weakness is a liability. He doesn’t stop pulling at Dick even when he hisses in pain, chokes and coughs when water sloshes into his mouth.

They’re moving into the corner, to slightly higher ground, the concrete and rubble under their feet sloping upwards. It would be impossible to sit on the ground and keep his chin out of the water now. Even half-numb from the cold there’s no let up from the pain, his leg hurting like a bitch where Dick has no choice but to balance on it.

Batman says, “The charges are set.”

Yeah, Batman is definitely mad at him.

“We’re… going through with this?” Dick is not going to call it a plan.

“We’re out of time.” 

It’s impossible for Dick to know how long they’ve been trapped. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, but then Dick has been passing out all over and it could well have been hours. From the tense, pale look on Bruce’s face Dick guesses it probably hasn’t been a short while. 

Dick feels like he should apologise.

“I never did… like baths,” he quips instead.

Straight-faced, Bruce nods, “I remember.”

Showers, yes. Baths, no. Dick had always thought them a waste of time. Now he’s going to develop a _phobia_ of bathtubs. Not that this is anything like even the oldest and largest of the Manor’s bathrooms. Or that this water is anything like as fragrant as Alfred’s collection of herbal soaps. 

“Never much liked… water.” 

It’s kind of hard to talk when your teeth are chattering like crazy and even the muscles in your mouth are ignoring you. Dick tries to remind himself that if he’s feeling the cold then at least he’s not hypothermic. Still being able to feel stuff is good. Except where it gets so bad he blacks out again trying to bend his legs, trying to kneel up, keep his face out of the rising water. 

The water hits his face like a fist; a sudden shock, sharp. Dick gasps, wishes he hadn’t when the foul tasting water hits the back of his mouth and he gags. 

He’s only out for a few seconds, Dick thinks, but he wakes up gasping, his face pressed against Batman’s chest plate, slipping through Batman’s hold.

“Up,” Bruce orders. “I’ve got you.” Which is only kind of true because Dick feels like he’s doing most of the work here, grabbing hold of Batman’s shoulders, pulling himself upright. 

Finally, somehow, Dick gets to standing. Or maybe, more accurately, balancing on one leg wedged between the crumbling wall and Batman. It takes a long time before he can catch his breath again. Here, the water level reaches up to the middle of his chest which is good because it means he’s not about to drown in sewerage anymore, but bad because his exposed half is suddenly freezing, sopping wet, colder, more uncomfortable than submerged.

“Next year,” Dick wheezes, “We’re going to… Bermuda… for my birthday.”

“Hurricanes,” Bruce points out. 

“Not all year.” 

It’s gotta be years since Dick went on a real, honest-to-God holiday. He can just about imagine the taste of too-sweet cocktails, the warmth of the sun on his back, silken sand between his toes. They used to travel sometimes when he was younger; just Dick, Bruce and Alfred and a deserted beach or a mountain trail or a calm, steady river to cruise along. Sometimes, Bruce used to laugh and smile back then. 

“Bermuda,” Dick insists.

He’s going to take them all. He’s going to kidnap Bruce if he has to. Tie him down to a sun bed and force-feed him Pina Coladas. Tim can help.

Dick grins at the thought.

Bruce hums warily. “I don’t trust that smile.”

Dick’s grin widens and he opens his eyes, tries to look at Batman. His face is still kind of fuzzy, but Dick is certain Bruce is scowling at him. 

“Fine. Bermuda. If we survive.”

Dick is going to hold him to that. And they _will_ survive. 

If his head weren’t mostly leaning against Batman’s shoulder Dick would be shaking his head in exasperation. “Always… the optimist.” 

“Realist.” 

A damp gloved hand rests against the back of Dick’s neck. For anyone else that would probably be a sign of support or comfort or something. Dick knows it’s a sign that worse is yet to come. 

“We need to move.”

Definitely worse.

“We could… just talk about Bermuda some more?” Dick tries hopefully. 

Bruce ignores him. “We’ll go slow. Hold on to me. Unless you want to be next to this wall when I blow it out.”

“I would prefer we didn’t…” Dick starts to say, and because Bruce is an _ass_ he chooses that moment to start walking. _Have to blow the wall at all_ , Dick finishes silently. Maybe walking is too strong a word. Hefting. Wobbling. Stumbling down fallen stone and brick deeper into the water. They’d just gotten _out_ of the water.

Dick can’t quite bite back a yelp when his bad leg hits something solid under the water. His vision colours red and white and grey and the world narrows down to his leg and _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_.

Bermuda, he thinks. Bermuda. The ocean. The sun. Burying Bruce in the sand while he sleeps. 

Batman tightens his grasp on Dick’s waist, doesn’t stop moving. It’s not encouragement. It’s a clear message that Bruce believes Dick can do better, do more, keep going, keep pushing forward and so Dick does. He always does.

Every step is agony, ice-cold water creeping up towards his chin. Their wading creates waves around them, splashing in their faces, stinging at their eyes. 

A bone-deep weariness hits Dick and he just wants to sleep again. Just for a little while. He wants this to all be _over_. But Bruce is demanding, “Walk,” and, “Don’t stop,” so Dick doesn’t. 

It takes forever, feels like he’s covered ten miles and not only walked from what amounts to one side of a room to the other. He has to tilt his head up to keep his mouth out of the water and that hurts. Water fills his ears and washes over his face, making him cough. Dick’s just glad Tim isn’t here. The poor kid would have to swim by now. 

Then there’s a wall at his back, and Batman is shifting him around, jolting every strained and pulled and broken part of Dick; taking his cape back, Dick realises. Blinking water from his eyes, trying to focus, Dick can just about make out Bruce pulling the cowl over his face one-handed. His mouth is set and Dick recognises that look. Determination. Unswerving dedication to a course of action no matter how crazy it might seem. Years of seeing only half of Bruce’s face have taught Dick to read him from nothing more than the line of his mouth, the set of his chin.

Somewhere between struggling to keep upright, trying to stop himself from drowning or passing out, trying not think about what’s coming, Dick hears Batman speaking into his ear. “Five second fuse, then hold your breath.” 

There’s no time for protests now; no time to convince Batman that this is a _really_ bad idea. They’re backed up against the opposite wall and Batman has an arm wrapped tightly around Dick. 

“Nightwing,” he says. Back to business. It means, _Give me your attention_ , and Batman waits until Dick more or less meets his eyes. There’s a detonator in his free hand held above the surface of the unsettled water. A warning. It’ll be even more unsettled soon. 

A single sharp nod and Dick knows to count to five. 

At times like these, when the world has come down to survival, to escape routes that no sane person would ever even contemplate, Dick has learnt from long experience that it’s best to just clear the mind. Not think too much about what’s about to happen. To fall back on training and instinct long ago drilled into him; obey Batman. React. Stay alive. 

_Five_.

A breath. Too much water catches in his mouth but it’ll have to do. 

He clings tightly to Batman, feels Batman holding onto him in return even more tightly, and then Batman is pulling them both under the surface and Dick squeezes his eyes closed. His injured leg hits the floor and the jolt of pain that spikes through him almost makes Dick let go. Almost makes him open his mouth to gasp or cry out or breathe. He clamps down on it. Batman is holding him so tightly it hurts his ribs, but if he’s still feeling then he’s still alive. 

It’s not like before, when the sewer tunnels had been coming down around their ears. This time Dick knows what’s coming before he feels it; pressure knocking them back against the wall so hard that even submerged it’s like being thrown against concrete by some super-powered villain having a bad day. 

One of Batman’s hands curls around the back of his head, drawing Dick’s face up against his neck. He desperately wants to breathe but the world is on fire now above them, heat bleeding into the water around them, and even hidden under Batman’s arms with his eyes closed, red and yellow burns through his eyelids. The sound of the explosion is a muffled boom in his ears. Too loud. Brick and debris rain down overhead and Dick can’t help but think _Oh shit_ , and _This is it_. If they’ve blown the roof out too they’ll be buried alive and that’s not the kind of death Dick would wish on his worst enemy. And he has some pretty bad worst enemies. 

But they aren’t crushed. They don’t die. Luck. Skill. Whatever it was. But the worst isn’t over yet.

Fingers dig into Dick’s sides. 

In an instant the pressure is gone, replaced by a pulling, sucking whirlpool. Dick can feel the strain in Batman’s body as he tries to fight against it, tries to keep them pressed up against the wall but his feet slip and slide away and they’re dragged along helplessly by the tide. 

There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t feel flayed, ripped and torn apart. He’s choking. He’s drowning. He’s burning from the inside out and the only thing that’s keeping him grounded, keeping the black and grey edges around his vision engulfing him completely, are the arms around him that won’t let go; that don’t lose an inch of their grip on him. If Bruce can hold on then so can Dick. 

They hit something. Hit a lot of somethings. By this point Dick doesn’t think he can actually feel any worse than he already does but the universe loves to infinitely surprise him. It’s one of the things he loves about life. Except not right now because Dick could really have done without the scraping and gouging. He could have done even more without the way they’re dashed against the ground- Dick thinks it’s the ground anyway- landing so heavily on his arm Dick thinks it might break. 

Maybe things are looking up then because finally, _finally_ Dick can breathe in air again and he doesn’t care how much it hurts his chest or how much water he coughs out. It feels good anyway. The moment of relief is over too soon and instead they’re tumbling, legs twisting together, hitting the ground over and over as they roll, carried along by the wave.

Dick doesn’t notice when they stop. He doesn’t notice much of anything, focused only on not letting go until he can’t feel his fingers any more. He can’t hear anything except dull ringing in his ears, his stomach still doing cartwheels, his head pounding. 

Slowly, bruise by bruise, hollow sound by hollow sound, the world inches back into Dick’s awareness. He knows he’s lying on his back. He knows Batman is still there, lying beside him. Somehow he’s gotten wrapped up in Batman’s sodden cloak. Batman’s arms are still tight around his shoulders. It must have been bad, Dick thinks, because even _Batman_ is breathing heavily. 

Forcing his eyes open, it takes a freakily long time before Dick can see anything with any focus. But he knows, with the certainty of a hundred missions gone wrong before, Bruce is watching him. 

“Stop with the… creepy staring thing,” Dick manages. He thinks he sees Bruce’s lips twitch upwards. Could be a trick of the light. Red drips down Bruce’s cheek in a diffused line, bleeding from somewhere under the cowl.

It’s just as well Dick doesn’t expect a reply because he certainly doesn’t get one. Instead Bruce gets right up in his face, peering closely at Dick’s eyes. 

Maybe that is kind of an answer after all. Or maybe Bruce is proving a point. Or maybe he’s just checking that Dick hasn’t bashed his head any worse. 

Apparently satisfied that Dick’s brains aren’t in danger of spilling out of his eyeballs, Bruce turns his attention to Dick’s neck, his shoulders, his arms, checking for breaks and punctures. The prodding is an irritation, pain flaring where Bruce pokes at bruises or tries to move his heavy, aching limbs. Even so, Dick submits to it, knowing arguing would only prolong the torture.

“Move your legs,” Batman orders.

Okay, hell no. 

“Seriously?” 

Dick has reached an almost Zen place with his pain and he does not want to screw that up. He’s not cold anymore. He doesn’t want to puke. It’s the best he’s felt in what has got to be hours. So maybe that’s not a good sign, but anything is better than _before_.

Batman _stares_ at him. 

“Jesus. I hate you.” 

He doesn’t. Not even slightly. Dick gets what Bruce is doing, but it still sucks. Making sure Dick is still in one piece. Making sure that Dick is still aware of what’s going on around him. 

And also, Dick hates him. 

But he still obeys, bending his knee, dragging his good leg up until his foot is flat on the ground. It’s a relief that the movement doesn’t hurt too bad. The cold is making him numb, Dick thinks. There’s a stream running under his back, water winding its way around him, around where Batman is crouched down beside him. Looming over him. Scowling down at him.

“Now the other.”

Damn. With a crazy kind of desperation, Dick had been hoping Batman wouldn’t notice he hadn’t moved his bad leg. 

Taking a deep breath, Dick tries to concentrate on anything other than the searing pain. He thinks of Barbara’s smile and he thinks of Tim running along rooftops beside him. Dick thinks of a time when he was a kid and standing in Batman’s shadow was _safe_ instead of _confining_. 

“All right,” Batman is saying somewhere close by. “Okay.” A hand lays lightly against his breastbone, a warm weight. There’s a buzzing in his ears and Dick has to pry his eyes open all over again. He doesn’t remember closing them. 

Batman puts a hand against the side of his face, drawing Dick’s attention. “We’re going to walk out of here.” 

Dick had been joking about Batman being the optimist before. He really had.

“You can… go for… help.” Speaking is becoming too much of an effort and it’s frustrating because Dick _wants_ to talk. Always wants to talk. He doesn’t like silence. Never has. Sometimes Dick used to wonder how Bruce- quiet, reclusive Bruce- managed to stand the incessant chatter filling up his lifeless Manor, echoing through his cave. But maybe that was the point; there was too much silence and stillness in Bruce’s life. Maybe Bruce needed something _different_.

“I’m not leaving you here.” Definitive. No arguments. End of conversation, and really what was Dick expecting. 

Arguing with Batman, though, is something Dick has long since become an expert at. 

“Move quicker. Find Tim… or Superman. I’ll… be okay.” Dick even believes it. Mostly.

The only reply Dick gets is in the form of narrowed eyes and pursed lips like Batman is biting back words. Angry, then. Dick guesses he’d react the same way if Batman ever suggested he leave him behind. It’s just that Dick trusts Batman to come back for him, no matter what.

“We’re moving,” Batman says. 

“Bad guys,” Dick argues.

“Either cleared out or dead.” 

Dick watches warily as Batman moves around him, down towards his bad leg. 

“Can’t… be certain.”

He’s looking at the makeshift bandage, still miraculously tied tightly around Dick’s calf. 

“No, but I _can_ deal with them.”

_Not carrying me you can’t_ , Dick wants to point out, but Batman- the _asshole_ \- decides to choose that moment to grab hold of Dick’s leg. It’s reflex to try and sit up, try to lash out and get Batman the fuck _away_ , but the attempt pulls at Dick’s chest and oh _God_ he is so messed up. 

Distantly he thinks he hears Batman telling him to, _Lay still, Dick_ , and _This will be over soon_ , but Dick wants it over _now_.

“You _bastard_ ,” Dick hisses. He grits his teeth against the agony of whatever the hell Batman is doing to his leg. It’s driving Dick crazy that he’s so damned _helpless_. He doesn’t even have the strength left to try pushing Batman off of him. “What… are you… _doing_?”

Eternally calm, Batman replies sternly, “Mind your language,” and then, “Retying this dressing.” 

He takes long enough about it. Or maybe the leg just keeps right on hurting long after Batman has finished. That would explain why Batman is sitting cross-legged next to him, a hand cradling the back of his head, keeping it off the ground, when Dick finally gets a handle on the pain again enough to think about something other than wanting to punch Bruce in the face. And oh, what he wouldn’t give to not be conscious right now. Batman is looking away, scanning the roof and the walls with a methodical precision that tells Dick he’s using more than his eyes. How the cowl’s visors survived all the crap they’ve been through Dick will never know.

Dick follows his line of sight; between the dim green light of glow sticks and his unfocused vision he can just about make out a wide crack splitting across the curving brick arc of the tunnel roof. That cannot be good. 

“The main tunnel will be blocked further up,” Batman tells him, somehow aware that Dick is awake without even needing to look. “There is a smaller tunnel we can take. It leads to a maintenance access-way.” 

It says a whole lot that Batman doesn’t mention exactly how far they’re going to have to go. 

There’s nothing more Dick wants than to just _rest_. To stop fighting and following Batman’s orders and let go. Maybe he would be saved. Maybe be wouldn’t. But it would be out of his hands. It would be _easy_. Except giving in is something Batman has never showed Dick how to do. It’s never been an option, not for any of them. So when Batman takes a hold of Dick’s shoulders, braces his legs against Dick’s side, Dick goes with it. Tries to ride through the pain. Focuses on levering himself up, getting some kind of balance when only one leg will even barely support his weight and when the world seems to tip further away with every inch towards upright he gains. 

It must be bad, Dick thinks, because Batman is being _encouraging_. Well. What counts as encouraging for him. 

He says, “Come on, Dick. You can do this,” and hefts Dick up into an awkward half-hug, half-collapsed kind of hold. “We’re getting out of here. Now,” Batman tells him and gets hands under Dick’s arms, pulling until he’s mostly vertical and clinging to Batman’s neck to stay that way. Leaning against Batman’s armour puts too much pressure on his chest. Hurts too much.

“Bruce-” Dick isn’t really sure what he’s asking; to make it stop. To help. To make this _over with_. Maybe it’s pathetic and needy but, whatever, Dick thinks he’s earned the right to whine a little. 

Bruce understands anyway, carefully rearranges them to take the pressure off of Dick’s chest and tells him, “Slow breaths. That’s it. Good.” 

Now, “One step in front of the other. We’re not stopping.” 

As impossible as it might seem Dick knows that Bruce means it; he’ll keep Dick on his feet and moving until they’re out of here. Or dead. That’s how it always is with Bruce. With Batman. They work in absolutes. Good or bad. Friend or enemy. Feckless playboy or humourless crime-fighter. Dead or alive. It’s comforting in some ways because Dick knows with absolute certainty that Batman will do absolutely everything in his power to get them out of here vaguely intact, no matter what it takes. In other ways this single-mindedness terrifies Dick because it means that no matter how bad this gets, no matter how much it hurts, Bruce won’t let Dick rest. 

He should be used to it, Dick thinks. Since he joined Batman’s war this crazy way of thinking- the expectation that there is always more to give- has been his life. In training, in fighting, in _school_ Bruce would never let up. Always pushing Dick beyond what he thought his limits were like Bruce didn’t believe he actually had any. Dick had always thought, _One day I’ll break_ , but he hadn’t yet. He won’t today.

Dick walks. Kind of walks. Closer to being dragged along beside Batman really, but whatever it is, it’s moving forward.

The ground is uneven which doesn’t help and Dick feels every brick and broken up, fallen section of wall that blocks their path reverberate through his injured leg as they clamber over rubble, spiking up his spine. 

They move far enough that there is almost no light anymore, glow sticks abandoned back in what had been their concrete prison. They’re walking in almost pitch black before Batman produces another from his belt, cracks it alight against his armour. He holds it before them, picking his way carefully over debris stained with green light. 

There’s a strong odour of burnt flesh that almost overpowers the sewer stench. An arm, a hand, curled in on itself like a claw, skin scorched red and black, reaches out from under a pile of bricks in front of them where part of the wall has collapsed. Dead. In the green glow it almost looks like some fake plastic Hallowe’en trick. 

Dick hadn’t thought about it before but some of the bad guys trailing them hadn’t been far behind. Must have been caught up in the blast. Whoever set those explosives, whoever set them off, didn’t care they were killing their own trying to get rid of Batman. Beside him Batman tenses, narrowing his eyes. Dick understands that even if this dead man was one of the asshats who’d been trying to kill him earlier this is still a failure. Still someone who could have been saved from what had to have been a gruesome death. 

Dick will never understand why there are people who chose to live among- to _fight for_ \- guys that’d kill you as soon as it became convenient. Who wouldn’t think twice about it.

They go around the cave-in. 

Fourteen steps later, boots splashing in the shallow stream they’re walking through, Dick’s good leg gives way. It’s only Batman’s tight hold that stops him collapsing to the ground completely. 

“Straighten up,” Batman orders, and somehow Dick finds the strength to unbend his leg.

Batman gives him no time to catch his breath before Dick is being pushed to move forward, to take another step, another, and another. Dick counts every one as an accomplishment. A great and impossible feat. _Just one more_ , he tells himself and even if he knows it’s a lie somehow it works. 

His vision narrows to his feet, his concentration focused on dragging one foot, shuffling forward the other, trying to work with Batman rather than hindering him. So distracted is Dick that he almost topples over when Batman comes to an abrupt stop.

Stopping now is not a good idea. Dick isn’t so sure he’ll be able to start moving again. 

Dick tilts his head up to glare at Bruce. “Why are we-?” 

“Our exit.”

Blinking water out of his eyes, squinting into the darkness, Dick follows Batman’s line of sight to the tunnel wall. He can just about make out a rusting grate set a few feet above ground level. It’s maybe big enough to crawl through. Dick looks down at his injured leg. Even having been immersed in water for so long the leg of his suit is still stained dark. In the green glow of Batman’s glow stick it looks purple.

“I can’t-” 

Can’t crawl. Can’t bend his leg that way. Isn’t strong enough.

It’s no surprise that Batman ignores him, drags Dick over to the grate and attempts to lean him against the wall. 

Hopelessness, frustration, _anger_ claw at Dick’s stomach. He wants Batman to _listen_ to him. He wants to rest. He wants Batman to stop fucking thinking he can keep going when he _can’t_. Dick isn’t Bruce. Nightwing isn’t Batman. His body just can’t take any more of this and Dick collapses to the ground as soon as Batman lets go.

It hurts when his ass hits the stone ground, jarring at his leg and his chest but right about now Dick just doesn’t give a shit anymore. He’s going to pass out, he decides. He’s done listening to Batman. He lets his eyes slide closed.

The next thing Dick feels is a sharp sting across his cheek; someone _slapping_ him. Way to remind him he has a broken nose. 

“M’sleep.” Fast asleep. Passed out. Dead to the fucking world. There is no sewer smell. There is no cold water running under him. There is no pain. There is no irritated Dark Knight crowding him, heavy cloak cutting out noise and icy breeze. There are only dreams of Alfred’s chocolate brownies and Bermuda. Where they’re going next year. 

“No, you’re not.”

Trust Bruce to ruin his nice, comfortable fantasy. 

It’s damned hard to stop himself arguing back because he totally _is_. 

Cold fingers- skin rather than the leather of gloves- press up against his neck. 

“You’re in shock,” Batman tells him. 

“Could’a told ya that… hours ago,” Dick snorts. Even to his own ears his words sound slurred. Hollow.

The palm of a hand brushes lightly over his forehead. “I’m opening this gate. You’re staying awake.”

There’s a threat in there somewhere, Dick thinks. Absently, he wonders what Bruce _would_ do if he died, right here and now. If he’d purge him from his life the way he did Jason. If he’d miss him. It’s not like they talk much anymore, and even more rarely about anything other than this criminal or that case. 

Which is why Dick almost wants to laugh when Bruce says, “Talk to me.”

That was possibly, Dick thinks, the most difficult three words to ever come out of Bruce’s mouth. If he weren’t so damned exhausted Dick would’ve made a joke of it.

“’bout what?” he sighs instead.

“You always have _something_ to say.” 

Batman’s presence retreats and Dick finds himself missing the touch and the closeness. It’s stupid. Even when he was just a kid Dick understood that Bruce and physical affection didn’t mix so well. That Bruce was nothing like his parents. When he first came to the Manor Dick was almost glad for it. Bruce never tried to be his dad, not anything like. The distinction was a comfort. A line drawn under his old life. The beginning of a new colder, darker world where Dick was alone. Mostly alone. Except, you know, where he wasn’t. 

There was always a shadow cast over him, a presence even on those long nights when Batman left him at home to finish his _homework_. A promise that he would return (to check he’d done it right). And when Dick couldn’t concentrate on anything because all he could think of was the blood on his mother’s lips and her blank, empty eyes as she lay dead and gone and broken on the ground. Bruce would always be there with training, or puzzles, or mug shots to memorise. It wasn’t exactly fun but it was something else to concentrate on. Something that was _important_.

To his left Bruce is calling, “Dick.”

“M’here.” Though Dick isn’t entirely sure how. 

“Tell me where you were going with Tim and Clark,” Batman suggests. The sound of metal scraping against metal, old hinges screeching, sets Dick’s teeth on edge. He squeezes his eyes closed more tightly.

“Checkin’ up on me?” 

“It’s a topic of conversation.”

Just that. Nothing more, Dick thinks. He’s exhausted enough, given up caring about three pints of blood ago, that he says, “Didn’t think you… cared ‘bout anything besides… Nightwing.” 

When it came to Nightwing, Bruce always seemed to know everything; what cases he’d taken, how many bad guys he’d put away, what other crime fighters he’d been hanging with. Sometimes it was kind of creepy how _much_ he knew. Sometimes it was reassuring; that Batman was covering his back. That he took an interest.

But about Dick Grayson, Bruce never seemed to know all that much at all.

“I do,” Bruce says shortly. Dick can hear the discomfort in his voice. For a second Dick is stunned to silence. That Bruce would admit even that much is unexpected. Surprising. Damn but Dick must be in a really bad way if Bruce is willing to right out say things like that.

“So where?” Bruce prompts. There’s strain in his voice, and a creaking sound. Must be heaving the grill open. Dick is too tired to look.

“No plan,” Dick replied. “Y’know I never... have a plan.”

“You used to like the movies.” More scraping. “Always wanted to go to the theatre for your birthday.”

Dick grins at the memory. “Fifteenth birthday. You wanted to… take me to… err… opera?” 

“I enjoy opera.”

“I don’t.” 

To be fair, Bruce did build him a motorbike which was both awesome and practical and pretty much summed up Bruce’s attitude towards gifts. 

“How would you know? You’ve always refused to go.” There’s a splitting sound, a thud, and Dick imagines that Bruce has won his battle to open up their escape route. 

In the end, Dick remembers, it hadn’t mattered anyway because that night, the night of his fifteenth birthday, when other kids had parties and cake Dick had an armed bank robbery to put a stop to. 

“Hey,” Dick asks thoughtfully. “Did I ever… have a birthday where we weren’t… y’know. Fightin’ crime?”

If there was one Dick can’t remember it. Even in recent years, away from Gotham and Batman most of the time, Dick spends every birthday the same way he spends almost every other night; patrolling. Fighting. It always ends up the same. 

Although generally not as bad as tonight.

“No.” Bruce’s next words echo dully, metallic, and Dick guesses he must be checking out the tunnel. It sounds small. Too small. Dick is not thinking about that. “If I tried to leave you at home you would take it as a punishment.” 

Which was true, Dick thinks. He always hated being left behind. 

The next thing Dick knows Bruce is gripping his upper arms. “It never was,” he says, doesn’t give Dick a chance to respond before he’s lifting him bodily up. 

_This isn’t going to work_ , Dick wants to argue but is too busy trying not to puke or pass out. 

Yeah, he hates being left behind but right now he really wishes Batman would just _leave_ him. But that’s about as likely to happen as The Joker is to become a model citizen. 

So Dick bears it, not sure anymore how he’s still going. 

Batman sits him in the mouth of the tunnel and somehow Dick stays upright. Somehow opens his eyes to find Batman kneeling in front of him. The dark outline of his cowl and cape almost blend in with the shadows surrounding him. 

“It isn’t far.” Bruce tells him. “This is going to hurt.” As thought Dick didn’t know that already. “Talk to me. About your most recent case.”

The tunnel is so narrow he doubts Tim could stand upright in it. Dick swallows down his horror at the thought of crawling on his injured leg, let alone _talking_ at the same time. “How am I-”

“I’ll do all the work. You can make it up to me by testing the cave’s security systems.”

Oh, hell no. Dick remembers the last time he let Bruce guilt him into doing that. He came out of it covered in bruises, with second degree burns all down his left arm and a mild concussion. 

He scowls at Bruce, then he notices the glimpse of a smirk on his face. Asshole.

“I’d polish all… your silver before doing… that again.”

Bruce’s smirk widens. “Deal.” 

The worst part is that Dick knows Bruce will hold him to it. And then Alfred will supervise. And then it’ll be three weeks later and Dick will still only have gotten through the dishes in the dining room. 

In one fluid movement Batman moves into the tunnel beside Dick, moves past him, and Dick feels old and stiff and useless. It goes against his nature to be so still. Even as exhausted as Dick is, it burns in his gut that he can barely lift an arm right now. 

“Talk,” Bruce demands from behind him. Dick can hear him fiddling with his gear, then a swish of cape. Instead of looking Dick leans against the side of the tunnel, closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at dark, half collapsed sewers anymore. He’d like even more if he didn’t have to smell them either. 

“Nightwing.” 

Right. Back to that. Good to know.

“I know you can keep going,” Bruce says. “We always keep going.” 

Special Batman-style encouragement. 

And this was something Batman had taught him too; how to keep yourself moving when you were in so much pain you could barely think. How to ignore injury, work through trauma, suppress fear, overcome exhaustion. The training is all so ingrained now that Dick rarely even consciously considers it. He just does it. Even now he knows he’s controlling his breathing. He knows he’s diverting his mind from pain and panic to concentrate on Bruce’s voice, on the creaking of the leather of his suit as Batman takes up position at his back, grips Dick under the arms. Dick tries to talk, like Batman asked.

There was a case. There’s always a case. He just can’t seem to remember it. 

“I think-” he tries. “There was a-”

Dick doesn’t get any further because at that moment Batman _pulls_. He doesn’t even pull all that hard, but enough that his injured leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as he’s dragged along and then Dick can barely remember his own _name_. It just hurts and hurts and Dick is really fucking sick of the pain. 

“’m retiring.” Dick hisses through gritted teeth. “Taking up crochet.” 

“Crochet would mean,” Bruce pauses to draw breath before heaving Dick further into the tunnel, “sitting still.” 

“Could do it… ah… on th’trapeze. New act.”

The tunnel is mostly dry, which makes a nice change, but finally out of the water Dick becomes aware of how sodden he is; how deeply entrenched the cold he is. He isn’t shivering anymore. He hasn’t in a while. It’s not like normal cold now. There is none of the sharp stinging along his extremities. This is bone deep, an iciness in his stomach and his chest that feels like it should be hunger but isn’t. Even worse, the dryness of the tunnel makes it more difficult for Batman to pull Dick along. His suit keeps snagging on the rough surface of the pipe, jolting Dick painfully. He legs bump over the lips between pipe sections and more than once Dick thinks he’s going to pass out.

He doesn’t. Bruce told him he could keep going and Dick believes it. 

“Nightwing.” Bruce’s voice would be more commanding if the small space they were in didn’t flatten the sound out, making his deep, gruff tone a thin, quiet thing. Or maybe Dick’s hearing is just as messed up as the rest of him. That would be just about Dick’s luck right now. “Talk.”

“You talk,” Dick replies petulantly. 

“I’m not the one who keeps losing consciousness.”

Dick didn’t realise he was doing that. He’d thought he’d managed to stay awake. Blinking, Dick tries to focus on the tunnel beyond, the grey-brown curved walls turning to black, formless in the distance. He doesn’t remember going so far that he can no longer see the opening they entered the tunnel through. 

Behind him Batman is breathing heavily. From exertion, Dick guesses.

“’m not that heavy,” Dick grumbles. 

“You’re a grown man,” Batman reminds him, as though Dick had somehow forgotten. But then, in the presence of Batman Dick often feels small, like he’s a kid all over again. 

“Yeah,” Dick agrees. They’re long past the point where either of them can imagine that their relationship will ever be as simple as it was when Dick was young and Bruce still had a sense of humour. Before their world became a much darker, more vicious place. They might have lost that innocence but Dick won’t ever give up on trying to make Bruce smile, so he adds, because he can’t resist, “Are we there yet?”

That earns him a snort out of Batman. “I take it all back. You’re still a kid.” 

He heaves Dick another few inches along and Dick understands exactly why he keeps passing out. 

Another few inches. Dick squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Compared t’you,” Dick grits out, “Old man.” 

Behind him Batman takes a breath, pulls, takes a breath, pulls.

“And look who’s doing all the work.”

“Keeping you in… shape.”

Dick grabs at Bruce’s- Batman’s- gloved hand where it curls underneath his arms. Maybe it’s to try and get Bruce to stop. Maybe he just needs something to hold on to, but Batman squeezes his hand in reply; encouragement and acknowledgment that he’s here and not giving up and it’s enough. Every time Dick thinks he can’t take any more Bruce always seems to know exactly what to do to push him that one step further, push him that much harder. That’s how it’s always been with them. Now, too, Bruce is pushing Dick to stand more than he ever thought possible. Shouldn’t be possible, really. 

Dick is dragged another few inches, and gripping hold of Bruce’s hand he imagines he could keep going for miles yet.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been approximately thirteen minutes since Dick last responded and no amount of calling his name or jostling him has yet brought him around. Bruce has tried, and even knowing it’s useless he still talks.

“Only a little further,” he says, and, “You’re not giving up on me.”

Dick is still breathing, his pulse there, but too slow and sluggish. There’s nothing Bruce can do about that down here; limited resources depleted by multiple explosions, communication devices useless this far beneath stone and steel. His own reserve of strength is beginning to fail and as much as Bruce would prefer to stop and coax Dick back to consciousness he’s acutely aware that time is running out for both of them. 

There’s a trail of blood smeared along the trough of the tunnel where Dick’s leg is bleeding again. He’s already too pale, his lips almost white, but Bruce doesn’t dare stop for fear he won’t be able to start again. Bruce fears more than just that, but he will not allow himself to acknowledge any of it. 

Instead, he focuses on the maps and blueprints in his head, long ago memorised and regularly updated. He calculates his speed (too slow) and works out the distance he has travelled (not far enough). He is down to his last glow stick, though Bruce is certain he can keep going without light; there is only one path to take. He does not, however, like the prospect of not being able to see Dick. Even now Bruce has to look very closely to be able to discern the slight rise and fall of Dick’s chest as he breathes. 

He says, “You need to do better than this, Nightwing.” It’s easier to call him by his codename at times like these, easier to dissociate the grinning, manic kid Bruce has known and raised for so many years from the failing body he pulls and hauls and won’t let go of. “If you want to go to Bermuda, you damn well need to do better than this.”

Bruce hates the beach. He’s always hated it. Too hot and too bright and too sandy. Too exposed, too many smiles and families and reminders of a normality he’s almost forgotten was once his. Bruce has done his best to avoid it for as long as he can remember, but if Dick survives this he’ll go, and gladly. In truth, he’d suffer a lot worse for Dick to get through this mess. 

No response. Not that Bruce had expected one. But he had hoped. Dick has always managed to surprise him, time and time again. Today, Bruce decides, is not going to be any different. 

The bandage around Dick’s leg snags on the join between two sections of pipe and it’s enough that Dick’s breathing hitches. Bruce winces, knowing how much this must hurt. Perhaps his being unconscious is a mercy. 

But then Dick relaxes, becomes heavy and still and no, no, this is not happening. 

There’s little room to manoeuvre in the tunnel and there’s no time for being careful so all Bruce can do is kneel down and pull Dick’s head and shoulders up onto his lap. He pulls off a glove, ignoring the way his hands shake. It’s the cold, he tells himself. Tentatively reaching out, Bruce’s fingers find a pulse point in Dick’s neck. His skin is too cold and clammy but there’s _life_ and that’s enough to relieve the hard knot of concern in Bruce’s stomach, just a little. 

Holding his hand under Dick’s nose, over his mouth, laying a hand gently on his chest Bruce finds no breath. No breathing and oh, hell, _no_.

“Come on, Dick.” 

Bruce can’t let him die in a sewer. _Won’t_ let him die anywhere if he can help it. This- exactly this- watching one of his family die and knowing it was his fault has been the fuel of some of Bruce’s worst nightmares for years and he’s not letting it happen. He can stop this from happening. Dick is strong. 

Nightwing is strong.

Batman knows exactly what he must do; the best methods, the proven most effective techniques of resuscitation. Nightwing’s nose is swollen under his mask, broken badly, and Batman would regret having to touch it if he had any other means to revive him. He doesn’t. Repositioning himself to crouch beside Nightwing in the small space, his cape twisted behind him- a weight pulling on his shoulders that has become so familiar Batman does not often notice how it drags at him- Batman leans in, pinching Nightwing’s nose, breathes into his lungs. It’s easier to concentrate on watching Nightwing’s chest rise than to think about how cold his mouth is. 

His silence is unnatural.

Batman breathes for him again, shoving aside the white hot anger that makes him want to shout at Nightwing, to _beat_ him awake. Logically, Batman knows that’s just about the worst thing he could do but this is how Dick and Bruce have always communicated; through furious words meant to hurt. Bruce is self-aware enough to realise why he does it. They are an expression of concern when he doesn’t know the words to tell Dick what he wants to; that he doesn’t know what he’d do if something happened to him. That all he’s ever wanted is to keep him safe, as a boy from Dick’s own anger and fear, as a man from Dick’s penchant for trust and his fearlessness. Even though, at the same time, these are the qualities in the man Dick has become that Bruce is most proud of. 

“Come on,” Batman hisses between breaths. “ _Live_. That’s an _order_.” Another forced breath. Check pulse: barely there but not gone. Check breathing: nothing.

There is a blankness, a darkness where the future might be. The tightness gripping his insides is not panic. Batman does not panic. 

Take another steady, controlled breath. Monitor progress. 

_He’s too cold_ , Batman finds himself thinking, his fingers pressed against Nightwing’s neck. _He’s too cold and there’s nothing I can do. It’s not working_.

Pulse fading. 

He'll stay here, Batman decides, until Nightwing breaths again. He won't stop. He won't ever give up.

A part of him- that cold, detached part of himself that Bruce sometimes finds himself fearing- balks at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Hours of freezing water and exertion have left him drained. The explosions, the fights, the constant cold and dampness have all taken their toll and Bruce is well aware he has not gone as uninjured as he might like to think. His hands are wrinkled and white, his boots waterlogged and heavy. Even with layers of protection, his suit designed to insulate he’s shivering. 

Blood coloured strange and alien by the green light stains Dick's upper lip where he's bleeding from the nose. Batman can feel the shift of cartilage beneath his fingers as he pinches the nostrils closed, gives breath again. That's going to hurt when he wakes up, Batman knows, but it's better than being dead.

Logically, Batman knows it's only been seconds since Nightwing's breathing stopped but every second that ticks away and every incremental slowing of his pulse feels like minutes. Useless, he thinks as he waits. For all his learning and training he’s useless when it comes to the things that mean the most. That are the most important.

"Wake _up_ , damn you," Batman grits out between clenched teeth, and this time he breathes out hard into Nightwing's lungs, watches his chest rise and tastes blood on his lips. And this time, suddenly, Nightwing gasps, back arching. Batman holds on to him, supports his head and tries to immobilise his injured leg, trying to prevent any further damage where Nightwing is shaking, struggling in obvious discomfort and confusion. 

"You're all right," Batman assures him. "Take small breaths."

It's enough. 

Nightwing relaxes against him, does as he's told and Batman is pleased to see that even after all their arguments and disagreements and the bad blood that has created a rift between them over the years Nightwing still trusts him enough to obey him. Or maybe he’s just too exhausted to keep fighting. 

Unacceptable.

“Open your eyes, Nightwing,” Batman orders. He should be angry at the number of times he’s had to give that order tonight, but anger is not what he’s feeling. Not at all. 

When Nightwing doesn’t respond to the command Batman taps his cheek lightly. Nightwing’s nose is still bleeding and Batman wipes the blood away from his top lip with his thumb. This, too, Batman has done too many times this night. That, at least, gets him a response; Nightwing groaning softly and turning his head away. 

The light of the glow stick is dimming. They have to get moving. 

Batman forces Nightwing’s attention, taking hold of his chin. “Wake up. We don’t have time to rest.” 

When they are out of here, when they are safe, Batman will let- will _enforce_ that- Nightwing rest for as long as he needs. Alfred can fuss over him and Tim will fret and Bruce will chain him to his bed if he has to. But not now. 

Too quietly, Nightwing mumbles an apology. "Sorry. Awake. Sort of." His slurred speech is concerning. 

"You have to do better. Eyes open." Batman hates that he must push Nightwing this far, but right now survival is more important than niceties. Nightwing always understood this. When he was a child, finding his place as Robin in a world that was far darker and far more cruel than he’d ever realised Dick never complained when Bruce asked for another hour of training, had Dick practice hand to hand combat until his fists were red and Alfred _glared_. He took every test and every trial in good humour, Bruce never needing to explain _some day this might save your life_ , or _this is what you will face_.

This practicality, this recognition that survival and necessity are to be prioritised beyond all else is something the other self-styled heroes never seem to understand. It has always been what sets him apart from _them_. Him and his followers. It might make him unpopular- even hated- but Batman does what he has to do. Nightwing understands that. Nightwing has always understood that.

Nightwing would die for him. Batman has known it for a long time; has seen evidence of it often enough but it never feels any less like Batman has failed him somehow. Failed to instil in Dick- in all of them- how they are more important than him. More important _to_ him.

Nightwing winces, mumbles, "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry." 

If anyone should be apologising, Batman thinks, it should be him. All his training and all his years of experience and still it was Nightwing who saw the explosive first, saw what was coming, put himself between the blast and Batman. Even after all this time, after all the times he’s heard it, listening to Nightwing crying out in pain has never gotten any easier. Seeing the way he’d been thrown back, his eyes bleeding, limbs twisted, just for an instant Batman had been unable to breathe, a ringing in his ears that was more than the explosion and the single thought: _I’ve lost him too_. 

Then there had only been the fight, the blank focus of ensuring none of the bastards so much as touched Nightwing again. Now, again, Batman must find focus. There will be time for guilt and recriminations later. 

"Just don't give up on me again," Batman says, the stern tone he was going for sounding far more like a plea. Begging. 

Nightwing nods once, a slow tilt of his head.

"Good."

Batman checks Nightwing's pulse one last time. Still too weak but satisfactory. He allows his hand to linger for longer than is strictly necessary. This is all the assurance he can allow himself that Dick is still with him; still fighting.

It has been a long time since such a simple case went this bad, since he’d seen Dick too hurt even to talk, to joke. The quiet is the worst thing of all. Somewhere above them Batman could hear the distant rumble of cars, a heavy truck passing overhead. The tunnel slants upwards, closer to the surface. Not close enough. 

If Batman is anything he is undefeated. He always has a plan. He always has a way out; an escape route. Or at least, that’s what everyone believes. 

Batman shakes Nightwing’s shoulder as hard as he dares, watches as he stirs sluggishly. 

"You said you were meeting Clark." 

"Yeah-" Nightwing blinks blearily, looking around like he's not quite sure where he is. Not a good sign.

Familiar with the construction of these old tunnels, with the foundations upon which Gotham is built, Batman knows the compacted soil around them is heavy with lead pollution. If he were to call for Superman would the idiot even hear him? 

Under his breath, Batman mutters, "Where are you, Clark, damn you?" A stupid hope. A foolish reliance he’s warned Nightwing against a hundred times and here he is, wishing to be saved. And here he is; when Batman really needs him, the one time he would appreciate the help, Clark isn’t _there_. When it comes down to it, as it always has, Batman can only rely on himself. That, and Nightwing's will to live.

Batman starts to rise out his crouch but Nightwing catches the corner of his cape, holds on. 

"No. No moving." He's still trying to catch his breath. Every inhale sounds painful, a wheezing, wet intake of air. 

"We can't stay here."

Nightwing knows this, but his expression twists into something unhappy and he almost looks like he's about to argue. At this point Batman would welcome the disagreement; if Nightwing is arguing he can't be _dead_. Nightwing holds his tongue though, letting go of the cape. That has to be a first, Batman thinks. 

His eyes are closing again so Batman squeezes his shoulder firmly and Nightwing startles awake. 

He's losing him. 

"Recite, in generational order, the Sabatino syndicate hierarchy." 

It’s all Batman can think of to keep him talking. He shifts around Nightwing, taking hold of him under the arms again, getting a good grip. He'll move fast. Get this over with. Get them out in the open or at least to somewhere where his communicator will work. If it isn’t so waterlogged as to be completely useless. There’s always yelling, if he gets desperate. He’d yell for Clark- for Superman- if it’d do any good.

“Now?” Even hoarse and barely more than a whisper Nightwing’s tone still somehow manages to convey belligerence.

“Now.” 

This is something easy. Something that Batman long since drilled into the then Robin’s memory. He knows Nightwing. He doesn’t believe for a second that he’s forgotten any of it. Batman takes the opportunity of Nightwing’s distraction- of his annoyance- to start moving again. 

Nightwing gives an aborted cry, grinds out, “Reginald.” He hisses. Draws a breath. “Bob, Cuthbert, Wilma-“

They’ve gone barely any distance at all and Nightwing has run out of air and fake names. He swallows and every rise and fall of his chest is hitched with pain. Batman drags Nightwing along faster. It must hurt him even worse, but Batman can’t think of that. 

“Wrong.”

“Then,” Nightwing grits out, “there was _Bruce_. Evilest of- all.”

Even in such bad shape, Nightwing still somehow finds the energy to joke, and Batman draws hope from that. He’s always known that Dick was- has always been- the strongest of all of them.

He moves faster. There’s a light, cold breeze at Batman’s back. They must be getting close to the access shaft. 

“Evilest is not a word.”

“Worse than Alfred,” Nightwing complains. Feebly, he tries to twist in Batman’s hold. 

Trust Nightwing to try and make this more difficult. “Keep still.”

“S’dark. Couldn’t- ah- see you.”

Every inch they go, with every minute that passes, the tunnel around them darkens just a little more. The last glow stick is almost completely spent now, light almost completely swallowed by shadows and Batman understands Nightwing’s fear. If Batman is honest with himself he feels it too; that the encroaching blackness is an end. A limit. As far as they go. 

Ridiculous superstition, Batman chides himself, but he grips Nightwing more tightly, pulls harder. The tunnel splits into two, Batman takes the right-hand path, assuring Nightwing, “Not much further.” 

His leg catches on the lip of the tunnel as they turn and Nightwing gasps and says, “Can’t… can’t,” and Batman does not reply because he can and he will. 

It’s a matter of feet now, the breeze against his back is stronger and for the first time in what feels like days Batman smells something that isn’t waste and decay and sickening. The air is still grimy and polluted but unmistakably Gotham. Gotham _above ground_.”

Bent over almost double, face close to Nightwing’s, Batman hears a mumbled, “Too dark.” 

As a child, not long taken from his circus home and everything that was loved and familiar, Dick had hated the darkness. He was unused to it. Unused to not being surrounded by colour and motion. Bruce remembers those times late at night when the Mansion stood silent and shadowed and Dick would find Bruce and sit with him and tell him he wasn’t sleepy when they both knew that wasn’t the truth at all. Those times he was quiet, the complete opposite of the loud, cheerful boy of the daytime who seemed to take very great pleasure in bouncing off walls, leaping over the furniture, and generally causing Alfred to fear for any and all breakables wherever he went. Those quiet times, Bruce let Dick be and it was enough. 

Batman still saw that child in the man he dragged along in his arms. No matter how much bigger he’d gotten or how much they clashed, argued in a way Bruce would have thought impossible when Dick was amiable and eight, Dick would _always_ be that boy he took in. 

Then, Batman hears it; the distant, faint sounds of a city; a grumbling grind and hum far above. The breeze picks up.

“Just a little more, Dick,” Batman says, hoping for a response, satisfied when Nightwing mumbles, “Yeah, right,” under his breath. Speaking is unnecessary, taking away from Batman's reserves when he has none to spare, his muscles too heavy and overworked. But he doesn't care. To hear Dick breathing, _talking_ , when only minutes ago he was doing neither is reason enough. 

The light flickers and goes out and suddenly the world is reduced to pitch black. Batman's fingers curl into Nightwing's upper arms, trying for reassuring when Nightwing tenses. They're so close. 

He doesn’t need to see for these last few feet, needs only keep moving backwards, sliding his feet along the base of the tunnel in case of obstructions, anything that might hurt Dick.

Long minutes, twenty careful inhales and exhales and finally Batman feels the uplift of a draft and an empty space above his head where for the past however-long-it's-been there has been only the confining arch of thick metal. 

Carefully, gently, he lays Nightwing down. He keeps one hand on Nightwing’s shoulder as he switches on his communication device, presses the spare earpiece from his belt into his ear. The hiss of static is loud after hours of radio silence and Batman realises just how much of the time he's _connected_ now. He talks to Oracle, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon, the others like him in Gotham and beyond who wear a mask and walk the fine line. Once upon a time there was no one. Then there was Dick. Then there was _everyone_. 

But at least the device works. It's something. 

Taking hold of Nightwing's chin Batman orders, "Don't go anywhere."

"'Imma run away, yeah," Nightwing snorts weakly. 

"I mean it, Nightwing." He wishes he could see Dick's face. He wishes he didn't have to go, even if he doesn't mean to be gone for more than a few minutes. Even if _nothing_ will keep him from coming back.

"Leaving?" 

"There's an access tunnel above us," Batman explains. "I'm going to climb up to get a signal." To get help. 

"'Kay," Nightwing agrees, sounding very much like an over-tired child on the edge of sleep. It would be pointless to continue trying to press the importance of staying alert, Batman decides. He just needs to get Nightwing out of here, to medical assistance, as soon as possible. 

A final light pat of Dick's cheek and Batman stands, his back aching as he straightens for the first time in hours. Starting to feel his age, maybe.

He reaches up, feels around the lip of the access shaft until his hand catches on rusty metal. He tugs at it and the rung holds. It will be a hard climb, made all the harder because he can't _see_ , but not so long ago Nightwing was fighting off ruthless thugs with guns without sight so Batman thinks he can manage a ladder. 

His cape is heavy at his back as he pulls himself up, hand over hand, rung by rung, carefully yanking on each when his hands find them in the darkness; they're old and some are missing and others are loose, long since disused. He avoids the spaces, stretching painfully to find the next when he has to. The leather of his suit is sodden and stiff and before he's even half way, by Batman's estimate, he's breathing hard, the muscles of his arms shaking. 

Out of the tunnels, Batman takes the chance to hope that Superman can hear him, speaks into the darkness, "Clark, you asshole, hurry the fuck up and _help me_." 

Nothing.

He climbs.

"Nightwing is dying and you're probably sipping coffee in Metropolis. Or saving puppies. What good is your super-hearing if you can't hear me the one time I damn well _need you_."

Then, there is a screeching, scraping sound above him and light, bright enough that it momentarily blinds Batman. He looks up anyway and there is Clark, looking down at him with wide, panicked eyes. In all the years they've known each other Bruce has never been so glad to see him.

Dick isn't out of danger yet. It's not over. But now there is hope. A _good_ chance. 

Bruce says, "What took you so long?"


End file.
